


Through a Mirror, Bloody

by SomeoneWithNoAO3Account, TheGreatBeardintheSky



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow, Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: And remember this is Worm and the World of Darkness we're talking about, Biased narrators, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Crossover where both sides consider the other to be bullshit broken, Don't copy to another site, Gen, I take no responsibility for the bloody locker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24768577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeoneWithNoAO3Account/pseuds/SomeoneWithNoAO3Account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatBeardintheSky/pseuds/TheGreatBeardintheSky
Summary: Because who hasn't thought "Hey, what would happen if I dropped a politely, civilly ruthless blood mage on Brockton Bay around the start of canon Worm?"
Comments: 26
Kudos: 94





	1. Bloodhound 1.1

I opened my eyes to unfamiliar streetlights. 

On top of that – and even more confusing – I was already standing upright, as if I’d been walking along the road without incident. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary around me; it was a quiet night, nobody else in sight. On my left, a school, on my right, a row of run-down houses. The only thing that stood out was an odd, foul scent of rotten blood... coming from the school? Curious. Well, no other clues were forthcoming, and standing around where something strange just happened seemed like a bad idea. 

The smell led me up along the side of the building, eventually centred on a broken window on the first floor. I checked to make sure I wasn’t visible to the street, then pulled myself up and through. A stronger stench here, but no signs of its source, so I cautiously advanced into the hall. Soon, following my nose left me in front of a locker, hints of clotted blood and filth oozing out the bottom. 

And the unmistakable sound of whimpering, exhausted crying coming from inside. 

Luckily for the occupant, it was only locked with a typical cheap combination lock; easy enough to fiddle around with until it popped open with a quiet clack. I pulled it off its mount, bracing the door, then carefully eased it open. Inside, a thin, black-haired teenage girl twitched at the sound, slumped in a morass of used hygienic products and old blood. 

“Hello?” I asked, watching her closely. “Can you hear me?” No response. Reaching in and gently poking her shoulder caused another twitch, but she didn’t respond or even open her eyes; resigning myself to a ruined suit, I reached in and carefully pulled her out of the mess. A quick evaluation showed her to be flushed and feverish, with reddened wounds on her hands matching bloody streaks on the inside of the locker door. Fighting an infection, then, and she must have been in there for a long time. Looks like a job for the paramedics. 

As I pulled out my cell, I got another nasty surprise: it had clearly auto-synced since I arrived wherever I was, showing the time as two hours earlier than it should have been... and the date as nearly six months in the past. _Fuck_. Well, let’s hope that’s a glitch and not _time travel_ , but given I had no idea how I’d even gotten here, it wasn’t time to rule anything out. 

The phone dialed, at least, and the 911 dispatcher answered me in East Coast-accented English; probably still in North America, then. Going over her symptoms left him sounding worried but not panicked, which was a relief. When I heard the ambulance pull into the nearest parking lot, I jogged over to the door and held it for them, then walked them to the wounded teen. By the time they had her bundled away on a gurney, the cops had arrived. 

The two officers – a tall blonde woman and a young man making a woeful attempt at a moustache – seemed to want me to have done _something_ wrong, but couldn’t actually fault me for curiously following such a foul smell or breaking into a locker to get someone out. There was a raised eyebrow when I gave my number, but a line about being on vacation was enough to excuse the out-of-town area code (though my excuse of having been out for a midnight stroll and gotten lost clearly didn’t remove all suspicion as to why a tourist was out in the suburbs in the first place). Still, they gave me directions back towards downtown (“I’m sure I’ll recognize the hotel when I see it!”) and let me go with a warning to expect a follow-up, and _not_ to leave town. Clueless tourist wasn’t my favourite game to play, but given I was, in fact, _actually clueless_ , it seemed like the best plan. 

Having escaped the immediate attention of the authorities, I walked a few blocks towards downtown and found a park bench to sit on. It was time to actually take stock of what I had with me. A few minutes’ investigation showed that while I had a normal night’s clothes and accessories – including my passport, thank goodness – there was no supporting documentation, and despite my _supposedly_ continent-wide phone plan I had nothing but basic emergency functions. All in all, it was enough to get me through a cursory inspection (probably), but sustained scrutiny was going to raise some serious red flags. 

And I’d jumped right in to be a hero and gotten police attention right off the bat. _Great_. No good deed goes unpunished, I suppose. Well, nothing for it – I’d have to get myself a hotel and start figuring out what I did and didn’t have access to. 

Hours later, frustration and fear were both launching determined attacks on my state of mind. I’d found out that I was in “Brockton Bay”, a mid-sized port city on the USA’s northeast coast (which, to my knowledge, _didn’t even exist_ ). That was the closest thing to good news that I had. 

The bad news: none of my cards worked. In fact, none of my accounts _existed_ , as best I could tell; banking, email, _everything_. Which was the smaller problem, because apparently whatever’d brought me here landed me in a world with actual, literal _superheroes_. All over the news, documented on reliable websites, every research option I could find confirmed these “capes” were as real as I was. On top of that, massive monsters called “Endbringers” showed up every few months to assault a major city, killing thousands of people even when the defending capes _won_. When things went badly, the death tolls sometimes hit _millions_. At this point, I was honestly hoping the whole thing was a hallucination of some kind, but given how long it had been going and how consistent it was, the odds seemed low. 

The only upside I could find was that parallel Earths were common knowledge here – apparently they were in regular contact with “Earth Aleph”, which had far fewer capes and no Endbringers. I’d have much rather ended up there, but at least it meant there was precedent for travel back and forth; hopefully, it would be possible for me to get home. 

After careful contemplation, I decided not to drop off the police’s radar; without resources or backup, going on the run would be far too risky. That meant I needed to get a phone that actually worked; thankfully, late-night convenience stores with pre-paid crap phones were still a thing on this nonsense world. The look on the cashier’s face reminded me that my clothes were still somewhat fouled, so my next stop was at the nearest 24-hour Walmart for something cheap and durable. A quick call to the police non-emergency number to profusely apologize for the inconvenience of my giving the wrong number when I’d talked to the officers earlier, and I was set; last but not least, get my suit dry-cleaned at the hotel – more expensive than I’d like, certainly, but replacing it would be much worse. 

A few more hours killed doing research, then it all paid off: the cops wanted me to come in and answer more questions. A quick bus ride later (thank goodness for early-morning commuters) and I was seated in an interrogation room, sticking to my story for all I was worth (diminished as that was). After maybe 30 minutes of competent-but-uninterested interrogation, the officer told me that I was free to go, then surprised me by asking if I was willing to be put in touch with the girl’s family; apparently, there’d been a request to thank me for saving her. 

Never one to waste a perfectly good debt of gratitude, I accepted. Soon I was on my way to the local hospital; upon my arrival, I was asked to wait in a side room while somebody got “Mr. Hebert”. 

A few minutes later, a tall, lean man stepped into the room; his eyes were reddened but clear. “You’re the one who found her?” he asked, stepping forward to take my hand as I nodded. “Thank you. Just... thank you. When she wasn’t home after I finished work, I started to worry, and by the time the police called to tell me she’d been found I was nearly panicking; only reason I hadn’t left to search for her is that I didn’t want to be away from the phone!”

I gave him a warm smile, answering, “You’re absolutely welcome – how could I do anything else, once I’d heard someone trapped like that? Please, sit down, you must be exhausted.” Just as I’d hoped, as we sat, he relaxed at the display of modesty without dropping his look of gratitude. 

From there, it was easy to get him talking: about her health (poor but improving), their lives (poor, and going downhill), his worries (justifiably significant)... as always, the polite listener who says just the thing you want to hear can help nearly anybody feel better. Meanwhile, I could get a picture of what sort of person he was: proud, honest, loyal, with a buried temper a mile wide and a stubborn streak just the same. His grief when he mentioned his wife’s death of a couple years back was palpable, and his regret when admitting that he and his daughter had never been as close since was thick enough to cut with a knife. 

Eventually, he was all talked out, sitting with the quiet, cathartic emptiness of someone who’d had a good cry and a full heart-to-heart. I stretched subtly in my chair, feeling how early the morning had gotten, and let him rest. After a few minutes, he blinked himself back to consciousness, then turned to me, smiling sheepishly. “And now I’ve talked your ear right off, after everything you’ve done for us already! Thank you, again. If there’s ever anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I had no thought of reward when I stepped in to help, and even without I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Nobody deserves to be trapped that way,” I answered, then allowed some of my worries show on my face. A calculated risk, but beggars can’t be choosers... 

“Spit it out! I can see you’re hiding something. I can’t promise I can help, but you’ll get a friendly ear no matter what it is.”

A quiet sigh, then I replied, “All right, all right. It’s... well, something’s gone wrong with my bank, and I’m stuck here with just a little cash and no way home. If there’s somewhere safe you know that I could stay cheaply – or work for my stay, I can do that- I’d be very grateful.”

He snorted at that, a gleam in his eye. “Ha! I knew you were hiding something. I refuse. You’re staying with me until you find your feet, and you’re doing it for free. The doctor said Taylor will be stuck here for a few days, so there’s more than enough room. There’s only one condition.”

At that, he stood, then offered his hand again as I followed him, finishing: “Tell me your name! I was so worried about my daughter, I flat forgot to ask when I came in here!”

I smiled, then, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. “It’s Charles. Charles Manning. A pleasure to meet you, Danny.”


	2. Bloodhound 1.t

#### Taylor

Pain. Throbbing, aching, fevered pain was her only companion for an indeterminate eternity. Brief flashes of substance intruded – a tall stranger in a suit, the inside of an ambulance, a hospital bed, her father’s worried face. Pinpricks of motion and sound blossomed in her mind, then faded as she fell deeper into sleep. But the pain persisted. 

Eventually, she woke fully; still sore, but conscious and lucid. Her throat ached with thirst, and her hands throbbed, but she could think and remember. Remember arriving at her locker, knowing from the stench that _something_ awful had been done to it. Needing to know, refusing to back down... and once she’d opened it, a familiar sound of running feet and a brutal shove. Slamming face-first into the back, desperately grabbing at the sides so she wouldn’t go face-first into clotted blood and rotten refuse... and the clang of the door behind her, sealing her fate. The jeers and laughter outside as she pounded on the door, screaming desperately for somebody, anybody to let her out. Then silence. Nobody. Nothing. 

Taylor fell back to sleep, tears trickling down her face. 

When she woke next, the pain had mostly faded. An experimental twitch of her fingers made her wince, but she could move them inside their cocoon of bandages. The room was mostly a blur without her glasses. Still, she levered herself up a bit on the bed, looking around: the window’s blinds were up, showing a clear blue sky, and there were various posters on the wall, presumably with medical advice or hospital rules. Her bed was the adjustable kind, with rails at the sides, but her hands were too sore and swaddled to grip them. Trying to see if her glasses were on the side table was a lost cause. 

With a sigh, Taylor lay back flat. Closing her eyes to escape the blurry ceiling, she tried to relax, and felt an odd prickling sensation all around her. Twitching, her eyes opened again, and it vanished; as she sank back into the pillow, it started again, nudging at the edge of her consciousness. After a minute of awkwardly poking around the bed-sheets, always finding it strongest when she wasn’t deliberately looking for it, Taylor finally gave it up as probably a side-effect of something she’d been given and tried to put it out of mind. Eventually, one of the wandering _distractions_ almost felt like it was in the room with her, and out of sheer irritation she glared in its direction, _willing_ the damn thing to show itself. 

And a housefly zipped up around the corner, landing obediently on the blankets over her legs. 

_What_. 

She lost her train of thought from surprise, and the bug flew right back into the air, wandering off to inspect the garbage can by the door. Taylor breathed deep, trying to calm down, then poked at it in her head again. This time, she could feel the connection a little better; not enough to see through its eyes, but enough to get a rough idea of how it was doing (hungry) and what it had been up to (following an interesting smell to maybe-food). Holding up a hand, Taylor directed the insect to land on the bandages, and it did – right where she’d wanted. Then it waited, stock-still in an unnatural way, not twitching its antennae or grooming its legs as a landed fly normally would. Awaiting orders. 

Orders she could supply. She was a parahuman. A cape. 

Taylor could be a _hero_. 

That revelation was enough to take the wind right out of her, and soon enough she’d fallen asleep – the fly buzzing off, back to its search. This time, though, she fell asleep smiling. 

There was a familiar blurry silhouette at the side of her bed the next time she woke, offering her her glasses almost as soon as she opened her eyes. “Dad?” she croaked, clumsily fumbling them on. _Damned bandages_. 

“I’m here, kiddo,” he answered – voice torn between relief and exhaustion. “How’re you feeling?”

Taylor waited a moment before answering, swallowing to clear her dry throat a little as she looked up at him. He looked _tired_ , the lines of his face deeper than she’d ever seen them, eyes reddened, thinning hair a mess. Despite all that, the smile on his face was broad and cheerful. “Thirsty. Sore. I don’t remember how I got here.”

At that, his smile faltered a bit, then firmed back up as he said, “Just a moment, I’m sure I can get you something to drink. Sit tight.” With that, he carefully squeezed her shoulder, then stood and left the room. 

Taylor heard his voice, indistinct behind the room’s door, and then he returned with a short man in a nurse’s outfit carrying a paper cup full of water. “Hello, Taylor. Your father here says you’re thirsty?” 

“Yes, _please_. My throat feels like something died in it.”

The nurse’s smile twitched at that, but his voice remained warmly professional as he answered, “All right. Just let me get you sitting up a bit, we don’t want you having any trouble.” The water went on the bedside table, just out of reach; then, while Taylor was distracted by longingly watching it ripple in the cup, he pressed the button to raise the bed to a comfortable recline. “There we go. Do you think you’ll need help holding it?”

Taylor wiggled her fingers, wincing internally as they twinged with pain, but shook her head. “I think I’m okay, thanks.” 

“All right. I’ll let Dr. Robbins know you’re awake, he should be by soon to check up on you. Just stick your head out the door and let me know if you need anything else, or push that button there if you’re stuck and need help fast,” pointing to a button – barely in reach from the bed – with “Call Nurse” neatly printed above it. With that, he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. 

There was a short, awkward silence, then Taylor’s dad picked up the cup and offered it to her. She smiled, reaching out to _carefully_ take it, and managed to get it up to her mouth with only a few drops spilled. The cool water flooded her mouth with relief, soothing her throat and leaving her feeling properly human again. She lowered the empty cup to her lap, sighing with pleasure. 

They sat like that, each quietly content to see the other safe and peaceful, for a pleasantly indeterminable while. Eventually, there was a knock at the door, and a tall man with close-cut blond hair, a stereotypical doctor’s white coat, and a clipboard with a thick stack of papers on it stepped in. “Hello! I’m Dr. Brenden Robbins. Just to confirm, you’re Taylor Hebert, and you’re her father, Danny?” The two each nodded as their name was spoken, and Dr. Robbins continued, “Excellent. Now, Taylor, as you’re a minor your father is entitled to be present for medical discussions, but I would like to confirm that you’re comfortable with him hearing everything I have to say?” Taylor nodded again. “Good, good. Where would you like to start?” 

That was an easy one. “How long have I been here?”

The doctor flipped through his notes briefly, then answered, “Five days – you were brought in Friday night, and it’s late Wednesday morning now. We were worried you might have to stay longer, but as long as your fever stays gone, you should be able to go home later this afternoon.” 

Hearing how long she’d been bedridden, Taylor slumped a bit, but perked up again at the possibility of going home, asking, “How sick was I? What happened?”

“Your fever reached 104 briefly, but we managed to bring it down. Other than that, there was fairly serious inflammation in your hands and a nasty bruise on your left cheekbone; thankfully, nothing seems to have caused any long-term damage. As to what happened...” he flipped through the papers again, then raised his eyebrows in visible surprise, continuing, “apparently, you were found in a locker filled with used sanitary products. We’re not sure how long you’d been in there.” 

Taylor flinched, then glanced at her dad; his hands were clenched, but his face was calm. He’d clearly heard about the locker already. “Um,” she said, “I think it was just after lunch? Maybe around 1? When did they find me?”

“We got the call at 5:48 PM, and the ambulance arrived at 6:02.” The doctor looked like he might continue for a moment, but closed his mouth and flipped the papers back flat. “I’m afraid there isn’t much else for me to say. Do you mind if I examine your hands? Being able to ask if something hurts makes it so much easier to tell how bad it is,” he joked with a wink. 

“Go ahead,” Taylor answered. The examination process was pretty uncomfortable – pulling off the bandages was the worst part – but she was relieved to see her hands looking mostly normal (if scratched up and a little swollen). 

Dr Robbins smeared some sort of medicine on her cuts, explaining, “It’s basically an extra-strength antibacterial cream; at this rate of recovery, once you’re back home you should be safe to use the regular stuff if it flares back up.” From there, replacing the bandages was quick and fairly painless. When he finished, the doctor washed his hands, then politely took his leave. 

The small family sat in silence again, but unlike before the doctor came in, this one was awkward and uncomfortable. Eventually her dad reached out again, squeezing her shoulder, then sighed. “I’m sorry, Taylor.” She looked at him, lost for words, and after a moment he continued, “Whatever’s going on, you’ve clearly been putting up with a lot of stress for a long time, and I didn’t really realize how bad it’d gotten until I did some serious thinking back this week. Now this happened, and I didn’t even know until the hospital called to tell me you were here. It’s my job as your father to support and protect you, and I failed.” 

Her jaw dropped, then she finished processing what he’d said and started sputtering, “No! No, dad, it’s not your fault, you didn’t _do anything_ -”

“No,” he interrupted. “I didn’t. But I should have.”

Blinking rapidly, Taylor raised her bandaged hand to rest on his, at her shoulder. “I’m sorry, dad. I didn’t want to make you worry, and it wasn’t that bad, really, for a long time. You didn’t fail me.” _I failed myself_ , she thought. “Please, can we not talk about this now? I’m still pretty tired.”

He let out a great gust of a sigh, but nodded. “All right, kiddo. It can wait until you’re home and feeling better. I haven’t gotten all the way to the bottom of this with your school yet, but you’re home free for this week, whether or not you come home tonight. If you’re going back to sleep, I guess I should get back to work, put a few hours in. I’ll try to pick you up in time for dinner?”

She managed a weak smile at that. “Sounds good. Hopefully I’ll get through this only needing one meal of hospital food, I hear it’s real bad,” she joked. 

His return smile wasn’t much bigger, but at least it was there. “I’ve certainly never enjoyed it, but to each their own – I’m sure _somebody_ out there likes the stuff. Sleep well, Taylor,” and with that he got up and left, closing the door firmly behind him. 

She may have meant her claims of exhaustion as an excuse, but once Taylor laid back down in the bed with no one to talk to, she found herself drifting off to sleep. 

Some time later, she woke up to the sound of the door opening, and saw the nurse from earlier bringing in a tray with two covered plates. “Lunchtime!” he declared. “Today is tuna fish on whole wheat, with a side salad and your choice of apple or orange juice. What’ll it be?”

“Apple, please. Um. I don’t think I can manage a sandwich with these bandages on.”

“No trouble, we’ve got utensils. Let’s just get you all the way sat up...” Awkward as it was to eat a sandwich with knife and fork (disposable plastic ones, at that), once she’d finished, Taylor felt much better. Afterwards, once the nurse had cleared everything away, she settled back to enjoy the sensation of a full stomach. As her mind wandered, the little pinpricks of information that seemed to be her power intruded into her perception, so she began to carefully focus on one clump or another. With trial and error, she started getting a feel for what each bundle of sensations _meant_ , whether it was the cockroaches and flies in the garbage bins downstairs or the spiders weaving webs up in the stairwells. 

Hours passed in calm, careful contemplation; soon enough, the sun was starting to go down, and Dr. Robbins was back with another doctor she hadn’t met before. “Taylor! This is Dr. Patricia McConnell, she’ll be examining you to make sure you’re healthy enough to leave tonight. I’ll leave you in her capable hands.” 

Dr. McConnell waited for Dr. Robbins to be out of the room, and then took Taylor through the most clinical full-body checkup she’d ever had in her life; quick, efficient, and thorough. At the end of it, the doctor informed her that she was functionally healthy, but should continue taking antibiotics until Friday to ensure the infection was completely purged from her system. Beyond that, spending the better part of a week on a liquid diet had left her somewhat malnourished, and she’d been thin even before that – she was on doctor’s orders to eat well and heartily once her stomach was used to food again. 

Once they were done, she tucked Taylor back into her bed with freshly bandaged hands and an admonition to clean and re-wrap them every day until the swelling was completely gone, then bustled out of the room. Taylor had just gotten back into her power practice when her dad knocked on the door, bearing signed discharge paperwork and fresh clothes. 

Walking down to the car was hard, even with her dad helping at every turn; legs unused for days weaved and wobbled even on level ground. She was stubborn, though, and forced herself forward until they made it down. Once she was belted in, she caught her breath easily enough. 

It was on the way home from getting takeout (Chinese) that Taylor’s dad brought up a subject that was an utter shock. “Sorry, dad, did you say that the man who found me is _living in our basement?_ ” 

Her father looked sheepish at her confusion, answering, “Well, yes. He was here on vacation, something went wrong with his bank, and he needed somewhere to stay while it got sorted out. He’s been a completely respectful guest, and it’s not like I was going to turn him away after he got you out of that locker.” He paused after practically spitting out the offending word, then continued, “Apparently he’s been working night shifts for years, so he’s used to sleeping all day somewhere without much in the way of windows; so, he just brought the spare mattress downstairs where he could block out the sun more easily.” 

Taylor frowned, but admitted that made sense enough. The rest of the evening was a blur, ending only when she collapsed into bed and fell deeply asleep. 

The next morning, she woke up feeling refreshed; _nothing like getting back to your own bed_ , she thought to herself. When she went down for breakfast, there was a note on the kitchen table explaining that her dad had gone in to work already, “Charles” was already asleep for the day, and there were leftovers in the fridge. Taylor carefully served herself the last of the egg-fried rice, then sat back at the table while the microwave hummed. As she relaxed, her insect sense came in (faster and less disruptive every time, she’d noticed); there were an uncomfortable number of bugs in the walls, attic, and basement, though not too many in the drier part where she could “feel” a mattress with a tall, lean bearded man lying on it... 

Wait a minute. 

_He’s not breathing!_

Breakfast forgotten, Taylor ran for the stairs.


	3. Bloodhound 1.2

I woke up when somebody punched me in the chest. 

For a moment of pure terror, I thought I’d been staked; found by hunters, moments away from a fiery death. Then they hit me again, and I realized I could still move. 

With that thought – and fear – in mind, rolling off of the bed and grabbing my cane was pure reflex. Finally, I got a good look at my assailant: the girl from the locker, clean but sporting bandaged hands, and looking at me in utter shock. A glance around the room showed no other visible threats, and she looked to be neither armed nor pressing the attack – I _probably_ had time for an interrogation before going straight to dramatic solutions. “What was _that_ about?”

She blinked, shrinking back. “You weren’t breathing. You _aren’t_ breathing.” 

Wait. That was _CPR?_ Shit. Damage control, plus investigating how and why she’d even noticed that in the first place. Let’s see... hmm. _Interesting_. Looks like there’s some truth to the rumours about traumatic “trigger events” being how people become parahumans. “I am, most assuredly, breathing. How else would I even be talking to you?”

With a moment to calm down and think, it was clear that she was coming to a similar conclusion about me – what other sort of person but a “cape” doesn’t need to breathe? Why else would her flies think I smelled like a peculiarly uninteresting corpse instead of a perfectly healthy human? And, given this world was full of strange and varied parahumans with a wide variety of powers, and nearly as wide a range of side-effects, why would she even _guess_ “vampire”?

Well. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Who knows – given time and study, perhaps I’d even be able to figure out how parahuman powers work, or at least mimic some useful tricks... ah, she’s made up her mind to confess, perfect. 

“I, uh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were a cape, I just noticed you weren’t breathing and panicked.” 

With a stern look, I asked, “And just why were you down here, looking closely enough at me to think you’d seen such a thing?”

At that, she squared her shoulders and looked me in the eye. “I’m a cape, too.” With a wave of her hand, a dozen houseflies buzzed up in a circle around her, then dispersed again. “I wasn’t even in the room, but my bugs noticed you weren’t moving at all.”

In response, I relaxed my body language, tilting my head to the side to indicate curiosity. “You’re new, then? I didn’t see any unusual insect behaviour around the locker.” She twitched at the reminder, nodding. Reacting to her discomfort with a reassuring smile, I gestured at an old wooden chair near my bed, saying, “Take a seat – I suspect we’ll at it a while.” As she moved to the chair, still wrestling down her nerves, I claimed the edge of the mattress. 

“So,” I opened, “cards on the table. I have no idea how I got here, or why I appeared right by your school; the timing is awfully suspicious, but anybody who could put me there without me even _noticing_ them should have been well able to get you out on their own. That’s why I’m staying here; whatever they did, it cut me off from my allies and resources. I’m alone and nearly broke.” 

Taylor nodded, listening intently, so I continued, “On the bright side, I’m no Tinker1 – I can work without a lab. What I _really_ need, and don’t have, is reliable information about what’s going on here – who the heroes and villains are, who can or can’t be trusted, what the rules are for someone who’s used to running independently, that sort of thing.” 

“So you’re asking _me_ for help?” she replied, practically radiating disbelief tinged with hope. “I only just got my powers. Why not go to the Protectorate?” 

“Because I don’t know who brought me here, or how, or why. While I’m sure the local heroes are trustworthy – on the whole, at least – they’ve got plenty of support staff who could be in on something, or some Master2 could be causing trouble behind the scenes, or who knows what else. Right now, the only hero I can be _sure_ isn’t part of a conspiracy is you, because nobody else even knows that you’re a cape. Once we’ve had a chance to investigate, make sure everyone’s all right, maybe then I could talk to the Protectorate.”

It took a few minutes for Taylor to make up her mind – on the one hand, her respect for the local heroes, especially “Armsmaster” and “Miss Militia”; on the other, her recently reaffirmed distrust for authority and desire to stay independent. In the end, the idea that an established hero was asking _her_ for help was enough to break the tie and put her on my side. 

From there, she filled me in on the local cape politics. Apparently, Brockton Bay had an unusual number of parahumans – despite being a medium-sized city in economic decline, it was probably one of the top ten “cape towns” in America. Most cities had half as many, and smaller towns likely only two or three. 

The Protectorate was the organized, government-backed hero organization; supporting them were the Wards, a junior team of teenage heroes-in-training, and the Parahuman Response Team (or PRT), an elite force of mundane humans with superior equipment and training. New Wave was a group of heroes who’d tried working without secret identities; while they’d had some success, they’d also lost one of their founding members to an attack in her own home. Finally, a couple independent heroes tried to help people without all the paperwork involved in government work, but with as many villains and gangsters as the city had, they didn’t tend to make much headway. 

Speaking of which: there were several gangs of varying size and power, each led by villainous parahumans. I was surprised and disappointed to hear that there was one made up of Neo-Nazis – and “Empire Eighty-Eight” was the largest gang in town, at that, with at least half a dozen parahumans and plenty of mundane grunts. Then there was the “Azn Bad Boys”, or ABB, who were a wide variety of ethnically Asian criminals forged into a single force by “Lung”, a pyrokinetic and combat shapeshifter, and almost certainly the most powerful cape in the city when he got going. What someone who’d gone up against entire _teams_ of heroes single-handed and _not lost_ was doing running a mediocre gang in a run-down port city, nobody knew. Last, and certainly least, the “Merchants” were a rag-tag bunch of drug pushers, thieves, and thugs, often left to their own devices in the worst parts of town. 

Taylor wasn’t an expert, per se, but she could draw on years of avoiding gang territories, watching local news, and otherwise soaking up all the little details my research hadn’t even known to look for. Add what appeared to be a phenomenally versatile power and the beginnings of a keen tactical mindset, and I considered myself lucky to have her as an ally. Suspiciously lucky, in fact, but at least if somebody’d dropped me where they did so I could rescue and recruit her, they’d _probably_ meant well. 

Pity they hadn’t bothered to send along any of my allies from home, or even a few of my books... ah well. At least I had my cane, and surreptitious testing had shown that my disciplines3 and thaumaturgy4 still worked as normal. 

After a couple hours of discussion, Taylor was clearly tiring; having gotten an idea of how stubborn she could be, I preempted any argument about her needing to rest by yawning myself, then declaring that I’d been up all night, and really should get back to sleep. With a promise that we could start again after sundown, she went back upstairs. Day-sleep claimed me, swift and dreamless. 

When I woke, there were voices chatting quietly upstairs – it sounded like Taylor and Danny were having dinner. Out of habit, I made sure there was no sign that anybody had been down here while I was out, then got properly dressed and got to work on the accounting papers Danny’d _finally_ accepted my offer to help with. It wasn’t much, but it passed the time and cemented my welcome here; in the long run, a “day job” helping out at the Dockworker’s Association (where Danny was the Union spokesperson) could be an excellent cover for how I was surviving, financially. 

By the time the work was done, upstairs had gone quiet; a glance at the time suggested Danny was probably getting ready for bed (no night owl, that one). I went up the stairs and found Taylor sitting on the couch, watching the news. “Evening,” I greeted her. 

“Hi,” she answered, looking nervous; without the burst of adrenaline she’d had earlier, her habitual shyness was making a comeback. “Sleep okay?”

“Like a log. Yourself?” 

“Fine.” At that, she looked around surreptitiously, then gestured me closer, whispering, “Can we wait for dad to go to bed before we talk cape stuff? I don’t want him hearing us.” Ah, of course. 

“I don’t mind leaving him out of discussions – honestly, he’d probably rather not hear the details – but the moment somebody gets a picture of the two new capes in town, he’s going to notice that they’re built the same as his guest and his daughter. We’re both pretty tall, for one thing,” I pointed out quietly, continuing, “and he only needs to catch one of us heading out at the wrong time once to nail it down from there. I can take point on that, if you’d prefer?” 

Eyes wide in alarm, she nearly snapped at me, but caught herself in time. “I don’t want him to know!” she whispered furiously. 

“I understand, and I’ll downplay things as much as I can. But, consider this: would you rather he find out from _you_ , or from _someone else?_ ” She hesitated at that, looking torn. After a calculated pause, I continued, “With both of us working together, we should be able to convince him that you can be a hero without taking too many risks. If he seems too worried, remind him of your power’s range – you don’t need to be _in_ the fight to be making a difference.” 

Finally, she gave in, slumping in defeat. “ _Fine_. You can tell him.” 

“Tell me what?” Danny asked from the hallway. “Oh, hello Charles. I see you’ve met Taylor; I hope you’re getting along all right?” 

Taylor glared at me, and I let just a hint of smugness show at the timing. “We are, Danny, but you should sit down. There’s some... complicated news.” At that, he joined Taylor on the couch, while I took the opportunity to claim a nearby chair. “First off, I’m going to reassure you that it’s nothing illegal or immoral, and there’s no immediate threats to worry about. That being said, I’m going to ask you to promise not to tell _anybody_ about what we’re about to discuss.” 

After a moment of thought – and a reassuring nod from Taylor – Danny agreed. 

“Thank you. Long story short: I’m a parahuman, and after the events of last week, Taylor is too.” Danny’s eyes widened, but he kept from interrupting. “My power comes with some unusual physical side-effects. Taylor’s ability,” I added with a nod at her, “lets her control insects and use their senses, so when a fly in the basement landed on me and didn’t move, she thought I wasn’t breathing and ran down to try CPR – and I woke up thinking somebody was stomping on my chest.” I paused there, evaluating his reaction; he seemed worried, but receptive, reaching out to put one of his hands on Taylor’s. She twitched, but didn’t pull back. 

“So, now that you know my secret: while it’s true that I’m having problems with my bank, they’re rather deeper – and weirder – than a typical account mix-up, and there’s no telling when, or even if, I’ll be able to access any of my resources or go home. Since I’m stuck here anyway, I’ve offered to mentor Taylor: she’s bound and determined to be a hero, and that’s something she can do best and safest with someone watching her back. Her power is perfectly suited for long-range scouting and support, which is about as safe a trick as a cape can have. Me, I’m more built for skirmishes; if we do run into trouble, it shouldn’t be a problem to keep said trouble’s attention on me while she retreats, supports, or calls for backup.” 

Danny thought for a while, holding Taylor’s hand; she seemed perfectly happy not adding anything to what I’d said. Eventually, he asked, “Taylor, are you _sure_ you have to go independent? What about joining the Wards?” 

She looked at me, I shrugged, she looked at the floor a moment, then answered, “No. I... No.” Squeezing his hand at last, she added, “I _need_ to do this, dad.” 

Worried, he turned to me. “Can’t you just work with the Protectorate? Why run around without backup?” 

“For me, it’s because I don’t know the local Protectorate; until I know who dropped me here and why, revealing too much to the wrong person could leave me dangerously exposed. Hopefully, by the time Taylor’s trained up and costume ready, I’ll know enough that we can at least make contact with some of the local capes, have people we can call if something goes wrong. We’re not just going to run out tonight dressed like this, after all,” I joked with a smile. 

Sighing, Danny nodded. “All right. I guess I can’t object to you training, but _please_ , don’t go looking for trouble?” 

After making eye contact with Taylor and getting a nod, I nodded as well. “I promise, we won’t start hero-ing without telling you. It takes time to get used to powers, figure out what they can and can’t do; we’ll be at this for weeks, minimum.” 

“Hey,” Taylor interjected, “that reminds me. You still haven’t explained what it is you do.” 

Right, that. Awkward. Skip the Dominate5, skip the mind-reading... downplay the blood magic, too... “While I haven’t been through official Protectorate testing, from what I’ve read I’m best classified as a Brute/Mover/Shaker6: resilient with some regeneration, fast in bursts, and armed with low-impact telekinesis. Nothing that’d hurt someone worse than a hard tackle, but enough to send them flying on a good hit. I’m versatile, but without the sheer toughness or raw power of a _real_ heavy hitter. 

Worse than that, something about my resilience doesn’t play well with sunlight, so I pretty well only go out at night; please, don’t tell _anyone_ about that, it’s a weakness best kept secret. Let’s see... oh, of course: I functionally don’t need to breathe – in fact, most toxins just don’t effect me, unless it’s something physically corrosive.” So many calculated risks... reminds me of the bad parts of the war, only with fewer people trying to set me on fire. But if they’re not warned, the first time something goes wrong during the day all my good will goes to dust. 

“Shaker, you said? Not Blaster7?” Taylor asked, looking thoughtful. 

“It’s a wide-angle blast, either a cone or a full sphere around myself; I can fire a smaller bolt at one target instead of letting lose the whole thing every time, thankfully. As I said: versatile, but not incredibly powerful. Probably a lower Blaster sub-rating, or something like that,” I concluded, shrugging.

Danny seemed uncomfortable with the discussion – more about his daughter’s impending direct involvement in such things than the abstract concept of power discussions, most likely. It seemed like we’d covered everything critical, so I changed subjects to how his job had gone that day; looking relieved, he started complaining good-naturedly about a coworker’s poor lunch-room etiquette. 

Eventually, he headed up to bed. Taylor and I headed back down to the basement – bringing down another chair for equitable seating – and started planning. 

###### Footnotes

1 From the PRT threat rating system, originally intended as quick categories to let troops in the field have an idea of what they’re facing. Tinkers are superhuman savants, capable of creating idiosyncratic super-tech, generally in a particular specialty (some are clear-cut categories, such as vehicles; others are based on methodology, such as miniaturization). [back]  
2 Masters are parahumans whose power(s) enables the command of minions or servants; colloquially, the term most often refers to capes capable of some kind of mind control or similar mental manipulation. [back]  
3 Natural (as much the term applies) vampiric abilities, such as mesmerism via eye contact, or superhuman speed. [back]  
4 Blood Sorcery – magic fueled by vampiric power. Generally less efficient than Disciplines, but more versatile. [back]  
5 The aforementioned mesmerism via eye contact; with enough mastery, it can even be used to alter someone’s memories. [back]  
6 Brutes are tough or otherwise hard to put down, Movers are fast or have special mobility powers (most commonly flight of some kind), and Shakers have area effect or environmental manipulation powers. [back]  
7 Blasters, of course, have ranged attacks; a cape having a Blaster/Shaker rating for ranged area attacks (such as explosions) is reasonably common. [back]


	4. Bloodhound 1.l

#### Lore

Camarilla Lore 1/Vampire Lore 2: Charles Manning is the Seneschal of Vancouver, BC, under Prince Fredrick of Clan Toreador1. 

Camarilla Lore 1/Vampire Lore 3: Charles is a member of Clan Tremere, and a respected veteran of the war against the Sabbat. 

Camarilla Lore 2/Vampire Lore 4: Charles earned most of his Status and reputation alongside his Prince and several other respected members of the Court of Vancouver in the most recent Sabbat siege of Corinth, Greece. He is best known for strategic and tactical use of Tremere blood sorcery (particularly the telekinetic path known as Movement of the Mind), but is also capable with both Auspex and Dominate, and can hold his own in melee. 

Camarilla Lore 3/Vampire Lore 5: While the exact details aren’t known outside of Clan Tremere, Charles is most likely the highest-ranking member in the Pacific Northwest and is one of the few senior members respected across the divides left by the Tremere Civil War (which partially overlapped with the siege of Corinth). 

Camarilla Lore 4: Charles has mastered both Movement of the Mind and the Path of Blood, and has a substantial ritual arsenal (known to include both Ward vs Kindred and Stone of True Form).  
Rumour has it that Charles and his Tremere are much less hard-line than the Clan traditionally is on the subject of non-Tremere learning and using blood sorcery; reports out of Corinth suggest that Prince Fredrick may be a master of the deadly art known as the Lure of Flame. 

Camarilla Lore 5: Charles spent some time undercover during the siege, having faked his own death in order to put himself in a better position to investigate reports of an Infernalist cult.  
Camarilla members in good standing, able to demonstrate both intellectual prowess and strength of will, can petition to be adopted into the Tremere under Charles’ leadership. Any who break the oaths involved in such adoptions swiftly disappear, one way or the other. 

Tremere Lore 1: As Camarilla Lore 1-3. 

Tremere Lore 2: As Camarilla Lore 4-5. 

Tremere Lore 3: Charles ascended to the Tremere position of Lord of Greece after his predecessor betrayed the clan in the opening salvo of the Tremere Civil War. Between the siege of Corinth (which incurred significant casualties among the Tremere – Charles himself was the only one who spent more than a couple months fighting there and survived to the end) and the Civil War, Greece’s Tremere were decimated, left scattered and leaderless.  
Charles rallied the survivors, gathered the resources of their Chantries, and brought them with him when he, Fredrick, and their allies went to take control of the Court of Vancouver. Between these followers and the fact that the previous Lord of the Pacific Northwest had _also_ fallen in the Tremere Civil War, Charles claimed the title unopposed.

###### Footnote

1 Vampires are divided up into over a dozen family-esque lineages, called Clans; each has different aptitudes as to which Disciplines come naturally, but are able to learn those native to other Clans with tutelage. [back]


	5. Bloodhound 1.3

With a whirring sound, the scanner did its job. “There, last one,” I said. 

Taylor had been completely unwilling to so much as _discuss_ what had been going on at school – as if she hoped it’d go away if she ignored it – until I’d pointed out that putting her in the hospital moved things from a school discipline case to a criminal assault, and our best course of action was to take things to the police ( _not_ the school administration, which had clearly been failing her for a long, long time). It took two more days of carefully poking at her, but she finally agreed to push things forward... and pulled out a comprehensive set of records detailing every single incident for the last five months, ever since the school year had started. Over 30 pages, much of it in point form, with date and approximate time of each incident. 

I was impressed – the dedication, resolve, and attention to detail displayed here were phenomenal. She’d even roughly organized things by type of event and ease of verification, such as highlighting the abusive emails that’d been sent from school addresses. Most of it would be hard to follow up on (there were plenty of “tripped in the hall” or “stole my homework” incidents that were functionally impossible to prove after the fact), but the sheer _quantity_ , backed by those events that _could_ be verified, should be enough to put her attackers on the back foot from the start. 

Which was critical, because one of the main people who’d been bullying her was one “Emma”, once her childhood BFF, and the daughter of a lawyer. With his experience and resources backing her, she wasn’t somebody who’d give in easily in a legal fight. The other ringleaders, Sophia and Madison, had a fair bit of social clout by high school standards, but were unlikely to be significant obstacles outside that context (though I knew better than to underestimate how far people would bend over backwards to excuse the poor behaviour of a “promising athlete” like Sophia. As if being good at running somehow meant she was immune to moral failings). 

Thankfully, while criminal law wasn’t my field, I’d still spent enough time wading through legalese to be able to find just the right way of phrasing things to get people to take this seriously. With the school desperately trying to keep this quiet (“Student left in locker for hours, hospitalized!” was just the sort of headline that got people fired), we had time to get things in motion; thus, scanning and emailing Taylor’s records to the officer in charge of her case (as well as printing out a spare set, in case we needed to bring them out anywhere; the originals were going to be hidden away as safely as we could). 

With that done, we could get back to training. There were two main things Taylor was emphasizing: first, physical fitness (with an emphasis on mobility and evasion, given her power’s lack of direct defensive applications), and second, investigation/scouting (given her power’s incredible information gathering potential). She took to the first with resigned determination, and to the second with dedicated focus and aptitude. 

The most impressive thing about Taylor’s bug control, as far as I was concerned, was its absurd multitasking prowess: she could micromanage small groups of insects within a larger swarm with incredible efficiency, and adding more never seemed to slow her down much. On top of that, her range – occasionally fluctuating, but never less than 900 feet – meant anything short of a sniper didn’t have a chance of catching her off guard. 

Honestly, I was a bit envious. 

Beyond a basic acknowledgement that they’d received the information, there was no immediate word back from the police, giving us a few days to work. While researching spiders, Taylor came across a documentary about armour made from synthetic spider silk, and got _inspired_. She quickly gathered hundreds of black widow spiders – apparently, their silk was the toughest of anything on the continent – set them to breeding, and then orchestrated thousands of their descendants into weaving us proper costumes. The results were going to take weeks to finish, but were promisingly resilient so far. 

That Thursday night, as part of my ongoing search for good feeding locations, I went out to evaluate a club – one “Palanquin” (initial verdict: conveniently crowded and loud, inconveniently popular and well-organized). One moment everything seemed perfectly normal, and the next moment an orange-skinned lizard-man wearing nothing but a pair of jeans came swaggering in like he owned the place; without hesitation, he headed straight for the VIP section upstairs, disappearing as swiftly as he’d arrived. 

I glanced around, reading the crowd: maybe a third of them were completely unsurprised, and most of the rest only showed the shock of something expected but bizarre. Apparently this “Newter” worked here or something, and... sold hallucinogenic drugs excreted in his bodily fluids? Mostly to attractive young women? _Fuck_ , this Earth is weird. 

Well. If this is some cape’s home base, best avoid risking a confrontation – there are plenty of other bars and clubs in the city. Ah well – since I’m here anyway, may as well do a little careful digging...

An hour later, my surreptitious probing had revealed that the club was owned by “Faultline”, a mercenary cape with some kind of structure-demolishing power – _technically_ a villain, as she operated outside of the law, but professionally and competently so (no cackling monologues to be found here). Beyond Newter, her crew included a human flamethrower, a snail-man, and someone with the ability to reshape the terrain around herself; a dangerous, flexible group, which the local clubgoers mostly thought of as charming oddities. _Mortals_. 

Still, I was going to have to open communications with the local capes somewhere, and this group at least had the advantage that they wouldn’t be reporting it up the chain anywhere if I screwed up. Time to head “home” and start planning first contact. 

Two nights later, I finally felt prepared: Taylor’d finished the mask for my costume (deep scarlet chitin over woven dirty-grey silk, heavy-duty sports lenses protecting my eyes, and mandible-shaped, removable panels over my mouth; honestly, I was impressed with her/her bugs’ craftsmanship). After research and discussion, I’d settled on “Eclipse” for my cape name (vague enough to avoid giving anything important away, mystical sounding enough to work with my “theme”, as it were). And, most importantly, an agreement in place that this sort of thing was better handled by her staying back and providing surveillance/emergency backup (as opposed to blatantly standing beside me). 

Speaking of cape names – after _hours_ of discussion and research (and much bemoaning over how all the bug-themed names were “blatantly villainous, completely dorky, or both”) Taylor decided on “Apocrita”, from the insect group including all social bees, ants, and wasps. _Slightly_ dorky, apparently, but with just enough dignity to pass muster. 

Next, the introduction: aiming to avoid giving off any hostile impressions, I’d written up a short, semi-formal letter, then carefully floated it up to one of the bouncers as they cleared up at the end of the night. It took tapping it gently against his arm to get his attention, but once he’d gotten past the initial shock of a letter delivering itself the envelope disappeared inside with gratifying speed. 

About 15 minutes later, my second burner phone buzzed. Showtime. I turned to Taylor, reading the text, then said, “Looks like they’d rather meet me on their home turf than neutral ground, so I’m going in. You’ve got everything in place?” 

“Yep – fleas in your clothes, swarm out back. You scratch the back of your neck if you need backup, or I have the fleas bite you if I need some.” She looked a little nervous, but mostly buried it beneath excitement and determination. 

“Perfect. Stay safe; I don’t expect this’ll be more than half an hour.” With that, I pulled the mask over my head – careful to make sure my hair and beard were neatly covered – and skulked my way to the back entrance, as Faultline had requested. A quickly-answered knock at the door had me standing in the back room of the club, with Newter and an obese man with oddly translucent flesh and spiral shells decorating his skin – Gregor the Snail, I presumed – watching me for any signs of trouble. Interestingly, they had a matching set of tattoos – the Greek Omega, upside down (Newter’s on his chest, Gregor’s on his upper arm). “Gentlemen,” I greeted them, smiling under my mask, “A pleasure. Shall we?”

Newter snorted, looking over my “costume” of mask over a hoodie and heavy jeans. “Sure thing, once you’ve proved you’re actually who you say you are.”

I sighed internally, but waved one hand at a box of empty bottles, lifting out the largest and orbiting it around myself twice. “Is that enough for you?” 

They shared a brief glance, then Gregor nodded, gesturing towards the door into the club. “My apologies for the suspicion, but one of the Empire’s capes – Rune – is capable of similar feats. We had to be sure that this was not some plot by them.” 

E88 had a telekinetic? Interesting. “I understand completely. Better safe than sorry, after all.”

The three of us headed in, then up, to a large table in the second-floor VIP section. Two women were already seated there – one in an odd mash-up of paramilitary gear and formal dress, and the other in a simple red-and-black costume with a gas mask. They stood as we approached, and the armoured one introduced herself: “Faultline. That’s Spitfire, and you’ve met Newter and Gregor. Please, have a seat.” 

Everybody got comfortable around the table – Faultline across from me, Newter and Spitfire to my left, and Gregor to my right. “Eclipse,” I introduced myself, “good to meet you all. I’m new in town, dealing with some... unfortunate circumstances, as you can probably guess,” illustrating the point with a wave at my dubious costume. “Figured it would be best to get in touch with some of the locals, and your group seemed like a safer place to start than the government types or the bloody nazis.” 

Newter snorted again as Faultline tilted her head curiously, asking, “Rogue1 or villain?” 

“Historically, rogue, but I’ll probably dip my toes in hero work while I’m here – favours to repay, but nothing that should set me at odds with professionals like yourselves.” 

None of them seemed _happy_ with that answer, but nobody took offence, either. “As a rogue,” Gregor asked, “What is it you did?” 

“Kept up my investments – I was a banker, before – some investigative work, some research. My powers are better suited to support or tracking than direct combat.” 

“Oh?” Spitfire prompted. 

“Enhanced senses, mid-range telekinesis, a low Brute rating. When I did get stuck in a fight, my job was generally crowd control or pinning down targets for the heavy hitters.” That should be enough to put them at ease, at least for now. “I have a couple questions of my own, if you don’t mind. Is there anywhere in the city you’d call safe to set up in, and what warnings do you think a newcomer needs before getting entangled in the local cape scene?” 

After a moment to think, Faultline answered, “Depends on what you mean by ‘safe’, but the north and south ends of the city are where most of the claimed gang territory is; if you’re in the middle, there might still be trouble but at least you won’t be in their home turf. Boardwalk’s heavily policed and functionally neutral territory, as are most of the wealthy parts of town. Anywhere nice enough to be safe from the gangs, though, is nice enough they don’t want anybody blatantly based out of it. 

As for warnings... first off, don’t fuck with us. That’ll end badly for you,” she punctuated with a masked glare. “The ABB are rabble, but they’re terrified loyal of Lung, and he’s a real monster in a fight. Empire Eighty-Eight is a little more organized, but they’re arrogant – caught up in their own BS. Couple of pretty vicious capes, though,” she said, remembering a vaguely wolf-shaped mass of steel smashing cars aside like a rampaging elephant. “The Merchants are mostly useless, but they’re damned hard to put down. Ah, and there’s a new guy in town, goes by ‘Coil’; doesn’t seem to have many capes, but his goons are well-trained and well-armed.” Hmm. Seems that’s all she’s happy to give me for now. Ah well. 

“Sounds like I came to the right place, then. Many thanks for the advice. If you’re ever in need of an investigator – for legal jobs only, please – give me a call, my rates are quite reasonable,” I said, standing from my chair and offering a hand to shake. 

Faultline took it, smiling wryly under her mask as she answered, “My pleasure. It’s rare to meet an independent with such good manners. Don’t cause us any trouble, and we’ll aim to do the same for you. Gregor, would you show our guest out?” 

“Of course. Please, follow me,” he said, moving towards the stairs at a comfortable pace. 

Shortly thereafter, Taylor – Apocrita, I supposed, since we were out caping – and I met back up, strolling down the street in civilian wear. “How’d it go?” she asked quietly. 

“Quite well, I think. They were surprised someone calling themselves a hero wanted to talk to them, but in exchange for telling them a bit about myself, they were happy to give a little strategic advice on dealing with the gangs in town. I offered to help them out if they needed an investigator; legal work only, of course.” 

Taylor blinked at that. “You sure that’s a good idea? They don’t cause trouble in town, sure, but they’re still _villains_.” 

“ _Technically, sure_ ,” I answered with confidence. “But if you compare them to the gangsters, murderers, and other problems in the city? They’re practically mundane. I’m not about to trust them – outside of a contract, at least – but they’re no threats to us as long as we leave them in peace. Consider this: if Lung, or... Kaiser, was it? The Empire leader – if either of them openly ran a club like that, the Protectorate would come down on them like a sack of bricks. The fact that they haven’t means Faultline’s Crew is doing _something_ right.” 

“Huh. I never thought about it like that. Guess it makes sense,” she admitted. 

“I do agree that we should keep our contact with them quiet. Just because the PRT as a whole is willing to play ball doesn’t mean some of the locals might not judge us for having such open minds, and who knows what New Wave thinks of the whole thing. Better safe than sorry and all that.” 

Taylor nodded, still looking thoughtful, and we walked on through the night.

###### Footnote

1 Rogues try to avoid the hero/villain divide, usually in private enterprise. They tend to have problems with villains still considering them competition and stringent government regulation of parahumans in the conventional workforce. [back]


	6. Bloodhound 1.a

#### Taylor 

January, thinking back, felt like it’d been a dream: starting out with a nightmare worse than any Taylor’d had while sleeping, then turning into a heroic fantasy, training montage and all. Charles – Eclipse – had pushed her to her limits, then taught her how to push those limits further than she’d thought possible in a few short weeks. Taylor knew she had a long way to go yet, but every time she finished her daily run faster than before or managed to score a hit on him while sparring her confidence grew. 

The one dark spot was the complete lack of feedback from the police. After they actually took all of her records, without a single complaint or excuse... she’d kinda started thinking it’d finally _work_ , that someone would actually stop the Trio from tormenting her. But as weeks passed without follow-up, that hope faded. 

Then February came along, and Winslow High’s “polite hints” that she was going to have to return to class got a lot blunter. They’d made plenty of vague promises that she’d be safe and the teachers would make sure nobody would try anything, but it’s not like the last dozen times they’d claimed similar had changed anything. 

The only concession they managed to get, after a full week of arguing back and forth, was transferring her out of the classes she'd shared with Emma, Sophia, and Madison. With the locker case still being dealt with by the police (hopefully, anyway), they couldn’t really push any harder for the school to do anything about them. With luck, it’d be enough. 

It wasn’t enough. 

The first couple of days had gone fairly peacefully – more whispers in the hall than usual, but no outright attacks. Taylor hadn’t trusted them to keep back for long, though, and felt a melancholy sort of satisfaction when Sophia caught her in a stairwell one Wednesday and “accidentally” jostled a passing student so they stumbled into her. Not that either of them were facing the right way to see that she’d done it, but Taylor’d been trying to lose her for five minutes through the crowd at that point, and the flea she’d put on her sock made it pretty obvious she’d caught up. 

At least the other girl was nice enough to apologize. Must not have been one of the Trio’s hangers-on. 

From there, things settled back into a familiar routine; small mercies, it was one of the older ones, before they’d gotten so bold in their attacks. Emma “just happened” to say cruel things in Taylor's earshot, Sophia found opportunities to literally trip her up, and Madison arranged for “harmless pranks”; every so often, one of their friends (or wanna-be friends) would pull something in class, but never the same person twice. Taylor just kept her head down and focused on getting through the day without getting outright injured, stuck in detention, or losing her shit on those awful bitches. That last was, most days, the hardest challenge to face. 

Her dad was mostly able to take her “it’s fine” at face value - and, while Charles made it clear he wasn’t buying it, he was willing to leave things up to her as long as it wasn’t interfering with her health or training. 

So that was February: spend the day ostensibly learning, with a sprinkling of verbal or physical assault when the teachers weren’t looking; then, go home, eat dinner, do enough homework to keep Dad happy, and _finally_ get to training. The chance to take a swing at someone (even if it was just practice) was all that got Taylor through the day without screaming, sometimes. 

On weekends, once she’d put in her daytime hours on homework, housework and first-aid training (a bit of heroic preparation her dad was happy to encourage, for once), they mixed it up more: investigation practice, talking through combat scenarios, even a meditation regimen (Taylor was skeptical, but Charles was insistent on its importance). Sometimes they’d go out and people-watch, studying how to read a crowd or pick out the less obvious sorts of criminals (followed by practice leaving anonymous tips without giving themselves away). Other times, they’d hit the library, popping in for an hour before it closed to do research. 

But, come Monday, it was back to the grind: boring classes, none of which helped prepare her for hero work. Classmates who ranged from “politely apathetic” to “actively malicious”. And every day, _something_ from the Trio – every time vicious, hurtful, and plausibly deniable. 

One day soon, Taylor swore to herself. One day soon, she would have her costume ready, and be strong enough to keep up, and be able use her bugs like a third hand. One day soon, Taylor would be a hero. And that’d make all of this worth it.


	7. Bloodhound 1.4

March opened cold and wet – miserable weather for outdoor work, especially at night. Unfortunately, it’s not like I had a _choice_ when it came to my hours of operation. 

Scouting and investigation around Brockton Bay had gone well, on the whole – I’d located several clubs and bars well-suited to my blood-sourcing needs, and had even struck up a friendly acquaintanceship with Faultline’s Crew. In particular, Faultline herself and Gregor the Snail had both turned out to be happy to keep in touch via text, briefly chatting every so often about anything but cape work. 

Beyond that, nailing down the various gangs’ territories had been time-consuming, but fairly simple; the boundaries had to be clear enough to potentially scare off rivals, after all. Much trickier – and still unfinished – was deciding where to start out our little heroic crusade. Thankfully, there was still a couple of weeks’ work left to do on our costumes, so we had plenty of time to plan. 

If we were going to risk going up against the gangs’ capes, though, I wanted to make sure that we could call in backup if something went wrong. In a real emergency, the Protectorate was technically an option, but government oversight was something I’d been avoiding most of my existence – _now_ hardly seemed like the time to change those habits, stranded and isolated as I was. That left New Wave. 

Their leader was apparently one “Lady Photon”, or “Photon Mom” as the locals tended to call her (referring to both her role on the team, and to the fact that two members of New Wave were literally her teenage children – apparently parahumans’ kids were vastly more likely to trigger than typical humans, and usually had powers related to their parent[s]. _Interesting_ ). Inconveniently, while finding contact info for the leader of a group ostensibly founded on openness and accountability was easy enough, without an established reputation as a cape, calling them out of the blue was likely to be dismissed. Any number open to the public, and all that. Walking up to one of their homes and introducing myself was unlikely to go better, unless I _wanted_ them on edge and resentful of the intrusion.

Eventually, we just decided the easiest way to have a friendly hero-style meet-up would be to have me fly up and greet her while she was on patrol – there’s only so much you can hide “someone is flying around up there”, after all, and hero patrols were as much about showing off for the public as they were actually hoping to catch a crook in the act (if not more so). It’s a good thing the Daylight Savings change wasn’t for a couple more weeks, or the odds of catching them at night would have been rock bottom. 

Two nights in, our plan was interrupted. 

While we walked down a stretch of street between a strip mall and a half-finished apartment complex, a paper airplane sailed itself down and landed right at my feet, “Open me quick!” scribbled on one wing. With a quick glance at the crowd around us (nobody close enough to read over my shoulder, a couple curious glances but no direct attention), I did so, revealing an equally-messy “Get your masks ready! <3 <3 <3” written inside. _Shit_. Whoever did this was equal parts curious and smug – a dangerous combination. 

Playing it off as a juvenile prank, I smirked, commenting to Taylor, “Get a load of this dumbass,” showing her the letter. Once she’d had a chance to read it (managing a commendable, if imperfect, poker face), I tucked it away with a shrug and walked on as if nothing happened. 

Less than a minute later, a crew of what appeared to be city or construction workers of some kind – hard hats, vests, and all – started herding people politely but firmly away from the mall buildings; some going inside the shops still open to ask people to leave, others approaching those on the sidewalk. Their story about a possible gas leak and a need to stay back was well-practised, but obviously a ruse once they had my attention (and Taylor’s bugs confirmed there was no such thing within her range). Still, given we were in public and unmasked, playing along for now seemed best. 

Shortly, everyone in the area – perhaps 50 people in all – had been herded into what had been clearly intended to be a lobby for the new apartment complex, at which point Taylor and I found ourselves a nook to carefully mask up in (with a quick mutual bemoaning that the full outfits weren’t done – thank goodness that we had jackets to remove, letting us create some visual distance on top of the masks). Not a moment too soon: once the doors were shut behind the last stragglers, a blast of pseudo-classical music burst from hidden speakers, overlaid with a deep, melodramatic laugh. 

“What is a man?” a cultured voice straight out of the old radio dramas asked us, “Nothing but a miserable pile of secrets,” he answered his own question. “Welcome to my home. Welcome... to Castlevania.” 

_What_. 

Beside me, Taylor facepalmed. “Über and Leet,” she spat, as if the names themselves were curses. 

While the crowd’s attention was on the speakers, the men who’d brought everyone in had quietly snuck out through side doors, leaving a small crowd of civilians and the two of us behind. The back row wasted no time in checking the doors we’d arrived through – firmly locked. No accessible windows, either. Our “hosts” clearly intended for the only way out to be forwards. 

Well. Not how I’d hoped we’d debut, but needs must. I strode out towards the doors, projecting confidence as I walked, and announced, “Well, this seems excessive. Über, Leet, I hope you don’t mind if I let these good people out? Apocrita and I should be more than enough to handle this little setup of yours.” 

Not waiting for a response, I placed a hand on the locked doors and pushed. One sharp _crack_ of splintered wood later, a thankful crowd was moving through the now-open doors. 

Once the room was clear of civilians, we moved up to the main double-doors leading deeper into the building. The speakers crackled to life again, the same well-honed voice as before uttering dire warnings as to the contents of his “castle”. Keeping half an ear tuned to the rant – on the off chance he said something tactically relevant, as opposed to this pointless bluster – I turned to Apocrita, gesturing to the door with a half-bow. “May I?” 

Taylor nodded, obviously holding in a laugh, and one after the other we walked straight into their lair. 

The first room seemed unchanged – more an addendum to the lobby, with grand staircases and plush chairs set all around. “So,” I asked quietly, “Über and Leet. You only briefly mentioned them – independent villains with a video-game shtick, right?”

“Right,” Taylor answered. “They’re always up to something new, though taking over a building’s ambitious for them. Usually it’s stupid stuff, like stealing coins from a mint dressed as Mario and Bowser; sometimes, it’s awful stuff, like driving around beating up prostitutes for a Grand Theft Auto thing. As for their powers – Über can use any skill like he’s practised it for twenty years, and Leet’s a Tinker of some kind.” 

Well, _that_ sounded like a terrible waste of time and talent. Not the sort I could likely talk them out of, sadly. “Interesting. I suppose we’ll see what they’ve done with the place soon enough,” I said, as we started up the stairs. 

At that, the speakers came back to life with another villainous laugh – dry and sinister where the last had been deep and melancholy. Without a word, a pair of full-size scythes floated up from the balcony above us, whirling through the air with the distinctive _whuff_ of sharpened metal. “Down!” I snapped, moving to intercept. 

Apocrita didn’t need to be told twice, retreating as she pulled out a retractable baton and held it defensively. Once she was out of the advancing weapons’ path, I moved, darting under the first scythe and grabbing the handle. For a moment, I thought I had it; then, twisting from the blade downwards, it jerked out of my hands. Its partner swept low, aiming to tangle my legs, and I barely avoided an undignified sprawl down the stairs. 

“They’re leading from the blade – I think it’s magnetic!” Apocrita called, holding position out of melee range. Huh. Didn’t know you could do _that_ with magnets. Tinker nonsense? 

Either way, time to test the rules for our hosts’ little game. As the scythes swung towards me again – one high, one low – I moved sideways, then swung, releasing a blast of force at the upper weapon. The blade snapped cleanly off of the haft, flying off to the side before crashing to the ground. Holding the now-blunt weapon with hand and mind as one, I smashed down at the other, cracking it against the floor. The room went quiet. 

Lifting my improvised staff to my shoulder, I stepped down the stairs and examined the blades close-up: semi-sharp, but not the deadly razors they’d seemed at a glance. No obvious control method, no sign of actual magic – definitely Tinker nonsense. “Dangerous, but probably non-lethal,” I told Apocrita. “We’ll see if they keep things that way.” 

“Über and Leet are pretty bad, but they’ve never killed anyone before,” she replied, moving up to join me as I climbed back up the stairs. “I don’t think the PRT would tolerate their web show as much as they do if they had.” 

With a nod, I continued the line of thought, “Right, they stream all their escapades. We’re probably on camera now – best make a good impression. Ready to move on?” _Cameras_. Because advertising your capabilities to anybody with an internet connection is _such_ a good idea. 

Apocrita nodded, taking cover beside the door. “It’s funny – a building this size, even without people in it, should have a lot more bugs around, but I’m barely sensing any. Whatever’s in the next room, though, it’s _hot_.” 

Grimacing behind my mask, I carefully cracked the door, peeping through before fully opening it. “Some sort of fake lava, looks like. We’ll have to watch our steps from here on out.” Half the floor in the next room had been taken out, leaving a ten-foot drop onto an ominous orange glow. The rest was a series of narrow bridges and ledges, like some kind of demented obstacle course. 

We got halfway across the damned thing before a door opened off to the left, revealing an animated skeleton – on closer inspection, a human in some kind of costume. They hefted what looked like a cow’s thighbone, obviously gauging distance for a throw; before they could, a small swarm of cockroaches rose from beneath us and covered their face. Apocrita’s body language positively radiated smugness as we finished the room unassaulted, distracted by nothing worse than the startled cry of an ambusher ambushed. 

The next few rooms went similarly – animated objects, obstacle courses, and ranged “attacks” by mundanes in costume, but nothing particularly threatening. Soon, we’d reached the stairs heading upwards. 

As we climbed, ominous music played, clearly intended to ratchet up tension between challenges. Apocrita took advantage of the lull and open space to call up a proper swarm – all kinds of flying insects buzzing in from the doors and windows while we ascended. By the time we reached the top floor, there were thousands of bugs following us, ready for action. 

Action they were denied, as we opened the first door into a surprisingly cozy dining room. 

Along one wall, a table lined with gently steaming pots on hot plates; along the other, several smaller tables sat surrounded by chairs. The smell of curry filled the air, closely followed by the sound of flies sweeping the room for hidden threats. Apocrita and I looked at each other. “Hmm,” I said. “Not what I was expecting.” 

Shrugging, she suggested, “Giving people a rest before the next stretch? They probably weren’t expecting capes this early.” 

“Makes sense. Shall we press on?” 

“Definitely,” and suiting action to word Apocrita took up a ready position by the next door. I took my own place across from her, and with fresh-practised coordination we moved on. 

The next room was big, though how big was unclear – great scarlet curtains across the sides and back obscured everything but the wide approach to a grand wooden throne. Upon said throne, a muscular young man in a well-made long black wig and anachronistically archaic finery lounged. “Ah, guests,” he drawled, injecting pure melodrama into every syllable. “Welcome to my throne room. I trust the castle kept things... entertaining on your way up?” 

Raising an eyebrow under my mask, I played along. “It was an amusing little diversion, certainly. Not what I’d planned for the evening, but one must go with the flow at times like this, yes?”

For a moment, our “host’s” grin changed to something boyish and excited, then he got back into character. “Of course. I suppose this is the part where you swear to destroy me once and for all?” 

Apocrita took the offered prompt, buzzing her flies to add an unnatural edge to her voice as she declared, “Your villainy here is ended, now. Surrender, and we won’t have to take you down.” 

At that, he stood, declaring, “I was summoned here by the desires of humans – and as long as such desires reign, I will always return! Have at you!”


	8. Bloodhound 1.y

#### Taylor

This was the _best day_ , Taylor grinned to herself as Eclipse brought his salvaged staff into a guard position and Über stalked forward unarmed. She faded back into her swarm, focusing on its senses to look out for Leet’s inevitable appearance. Immediate physical threats were Charles’ job; Tinkers, Thinkers1, and other support types were _hers_. 

Keeping a metaphorical eye on the fight (slow so far, both combatants starting cautiously), she swept flyers around the room, checking every nook and cranny. Leet wasn’t in the room, leaving the question: was he lurking to join in physically, or waiting to trigger contraptions? 

Another moment’s search showed several disguised panels but no full-sized doors, so Taylor started sweeping the rest of the floor while setting her bigger bugs to work chewing into the walls. At the same time, her spiders finished drawing out lengths of silk long enough to tangle and her faster fliers started braiding them into light-weight cord. If Über was still up in... thirty seconds? She’d be ready to bring him down. 

Hmm. Next time she should have the cords ready in advance. 

Watching the fight was interesting – Eclipse was visibly faster, and had the reach advantage twice over, but Über’s blocks and strikes were picture-perfect, deflecting attacks and pushing back the taller cape. If Charles didn’t start cheating with telekinesis soon, Taylor thought, he might be in trouble... 

Then the pyrotechnics started. 

“Taste the Flames of Chaos!” Über proclaimed, flaring his cape as fist-sized fireballs flew from it at Eclipse – who dove to the side, then countered with a blast of raw force which sent Über tumbling. 

Taylor moved back again, keeping out of the line of (unfortunately literal) fire as she sent silk cord-bearing wasps and houseflies to flank their opponent. Meanwhile, she sped up the search – there wasn’t that much floor left, Leet had to be around here somewhere... There!

As her swarm moved in unison, binding Leet to his chair and Über where he fell, the Tinker managed to desperately hit a switch with his foot. A column of flame engulfed Über as a recorded laugh – louder, deeper, and more deranged than before – blared from the speakers, and when the fire faded away, Über was gone. In his place was a ten-foot demonic figure, clearly inspired by a bat but too humanoid to be properly called chiropteran. 

Eclipse stepped into its reach, thrusting his arm towards it with a shout, and the beast slammed through the throne and tangled in the curtains behind it. Leet struggled against his bonds, yelling, but couldn’t reach anything from his improvised cocoon. Taylor took the opportunity to back further away from the fight, ducking into the curtains at the back of the room. 

The thing in Über’s place let out a distorted groan, getting up on all fours only to pause as Eclipse rapped it sharply on the back of the head. “ _Stand down_ ,” he ordered, voice sharp. “I can’t guarantee your safety if you keep fighting in that projection.”

The creature hesitated, then nodded, glowing briefly green before seeming to shatter – leaving a bruised Über wearing torn and scorched clothing in its place. Taylor directed a second wave of bugs to tie him up, and this time nothing stopped them. 

They’d won. Taylor and Charles _had won!_ Her grin grew until her face hurt. 

Oh, hey, Leet had a little jail cell thing set up with someone behind bars... “Eclipse?” Taylor – _Apocrita_ – said, “I’ve got Leet tied up in his lair, but they’ve got a prisoner. We should get him free.” 

“A prisoner? Already?” Eclipse asked, the raised eyebrow clear in his voice. “Did somebody stumble in here while you were setting up?” he asked Über.

“I plead the fifth,” Über groaned, his weirdly resonant voice muffled from being trussed up on the floor. 

“Of course. I suppose we’d best bring you along,” Eclipse said, bending over to heft Über onto his shoulder with a grunt. “Which way?”

Taylor pointed, and they walked briskly out. 

Leet’s control room looked like he’d been inspired by a stereotypical movie security station – one of the walls was almost completely covered by computer screens, each showing different rooms or angles (a full third still showing the half-wrecked boss chamber). The villain himself was thoroughly bound to his wheeled computer chair, a dark hood awkwardly half-covering his face. “You may have beaten us this time,” Leet blustered angrily as they entered the room, “but we’ll be back. You can count on that.”

“Of course you will – you’ve firmly demonstrated that your determination is your best trait,” Eclipse replied. An amused snort echoed from the back of the room. “Still, as you say, we’ve got you this time. Might as well make it easy on yourself.” 

As the Tinker subsided to a sullen glare, Taylor pushed down the urge to giggle at him, grabbed the obvious key left on the desk, and headed to the impromptu cell at the back of the room. Eclipse carefully propped Über near his partner in crime, then followed. 

A slender young man in matching black leather jacket and pants reclined on a couch behind bars, curly black hair framing a plain white mask. “My heroes,” he drawled. “I’d introduce myself, but the world’s watching and I’m shy. Still, it’s an honour to be the first hostage freed by the new capes in town. Please, keep me safe from my dastardly captors.” 

Taylor rolled her eyes at him behind her mask, torn between amusement at how relaxed he was in a literal prison cell and annoyance at the lack of respect. They’d just saved him, was an honest thanks too much to ask for? She still opened the door to let him out, of course. Being weird and annoying wasn’t reason to keep someone locked up. 

The prisoner slouched his way to his feet and out of the cell, giving Taylor – Apocrita – an insolent little nod as he passed her. “Mind if I wander off for a bit?” he asked, “I’ve been in there for ages, and my _brilliant_ hosts forgot to include a washroom.” 

Taylor shrugged, and the masked prisoner made his way lazily out the door. 

After a couple minutes spent making sure there weren’t any other surprises waiting for them, Eclipse pulled out an unfamiliar cellphone and dialed the PRT. Über and Leet’s broadcast made verifying themselves easy (“I’m the one on the phone, waving at the camera; call me Eclipse, my teammate’s Apocrita...”), and they were reassured that squads were already setting up outside and would begin their own sweep of the building shortly. 

Then, Apocrita noticed something odd through her swarm. “Hey, Eclipse? It looks like the guy we let out is making a break for it down the fire escape. He’s definitely trying to avoid the PRT.” 

“No surprise there – he was acting pretty suspicious. I don’t think we have reason to believe he actually did anything wrong here, though, so we may as well let him go. Keep an eye on him as long as you can, just in case?” 

“Got it. The PRT’s making good time through the building, someone should be here pretty soon... oh, hey! That’s got to be Armsmaster pulling up outside!” That full-body armour with back-mounted polearm was unmistakable even through Taylor’s swarm sense. 

“Ah, good,” Eclipse replied. “I look forward to meeting one of our official counterparts.” 

Wow, that was a heck of a poker face. Voice. Whatever. Ok, fine, Taylor knew Charles was an experienced hero and all, but this was _Armsmaster_ coming up to meet them! Head of the Brockton Bay Protectorate! One of the top Tinkers on the _continent!_ When she was a kid she’d had clothes with his logo on them! 

All right, Apocrita, deep breaths. You’re a hero, you’ve taken down villains now, you’re ready for this. 

The first PRT team arrived while Armsmaster was still outside. Four people, individual features hidden by their armoured uniforms but each clearly in top physical condition. Two moved immediately to secure Über and Leet, adding dollops of containment foam2 to ensure they remained bound. One moved to the computer station, quietly activating their helmet-mounted comm unit and coordinating with the teams sweeping the building. Finally, one approached Eclipse and Apocrita. 

“You’re the ones who made the captures?” a masculine voice asked from the heavy helmet. Eclipse nodded, and the PRT officer continued, “If there are no further threats, please head outside – Armsmaster would like to speak with you.” 

“I believe the building’s clear, unless some of their henchpeople are still lurking about. We haven’t seen any sign of them on the monitors, though,” Eclipse answered. 

“Good. We’ll finish up here.” With that curt dismissal, the officer moved to help extract Leet from his chair. 

Eclipse made eye contact with Taylor – well, goggle contact, close enough – and motioned towards the door. “Shall we?” 

Taylor nodded, trying to bury her nerves in her swarm so nothing showed in her posture, and they headed out. 

By the time they reached the outdoors, she was almost calm – nothing like combining a bit of exercise with blatant reminders of your good work to help you feel grounded again. Armsmaster looked up from his conversation with one of the blank-masked PRT officers, then dismissed them with a nod and headed towards the freshly-debuted heroes. “Eclipse and Apocrita, I presume?” 

Eclipse stepped forward first, offering a hand to shake while confirming their identities. Apocrita took the opportunity to brace herself for actually speaking to one of her personal heroes, taking in his sleek blue-and-silver armour, sharply angled visor, and vicious-looking halberd. The only visible skin was the bottom third of his face – little more than a mouth and jawline with a close-trimmed beard. 

“So, bug control? Sounds like a useful trick,” broke into Taylor’s ruminations. Armsmaster was smiling at her, moving his hand out to shake – she only just brought hers up in time to avoid revealing her woolgathering. 

“Yeah, it’s pretty great. I made our costumes myself,” Apocrita answered, shaking his hand as firmly as she could then letting go. 

“I saw the video of you swarming Über, and heard that Leet went down the same way – if that’s what you can do in your first cape fight, you’re going to be a terror once you’ve got more experience under your belt,” Armsmaster said. “Über and Leet may not be top-tier threats, but they’ve got a long history of slipping away from losing fights.” 

Wow. “Thanks. Eclipse did most of the actual fighting, though. I just tied them up once they were down.” _Armsmaster_ thought she was going to be a terror. Taylor was _so_ glad her mask hid her grin, it had to be at least halfway manic by now. 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Eclipse countered. “You took down Leet without me ever seeing him, after all. Fighting Über would have been a lot trickier with him throwing who-knows-what out of the walls at me.” 

Armsmaster looked at Eclipse, tilting his head curiously. “This isn’t _your_ first time out, is it.” 

“Ah, you’ve got me. I’m new here with a new name, but I can assure you that I’m no villain. Just an old rogue who’s helping a friend find her feet.” 

That answer turned the hero’s smile down a couple notches. “Hmm. Nothing I can say to change your mind? We very much prefer to know who’s operating in the city.” 

Eclipse shrugged at that, replying, “Maybe once I get to know you and your team a little better? I’m a very private person, is all. After a few run-ins with villains pulling a fast one, you end up slow to trust anybody you haven’t seen in action.” 

Armsmaster snorted, seeming disappointed but not upset. “Fair enough, I suppose. Could I have your preferred contact information, just in case?” 

Phone numbers were exchanged, polite good-nights passed back and forth, and one last round of handshakes made (including a couple of the PRT officers this time – apparently they’d earned some grudging respect with how they’d handled things). 

Finally, their original mission for the night shelved, Taylor and Charles headed home. Taylor’s bugs made finding a quiet spot to remove masks and replace jackets easy, and the walk home was peaceful and quiet. 

When they _got_ home, of course, the quiet lasted all of five seconds before Taylor’s dad was on them, snatching her up into a hug while exclaiming his worry and relief. She squirmed awkwardly, appreciating the open affection... but not the exact delivery method. Charles waited for Taylor’s feet to meet the ground again, clapped her on the shoulder with a quietly proud “Good work tonight,” nodded to her dad, and headed down to the basement. 

A few minutes’ time had Taylor and her dad sitting on the couch, cups of hot tea by their sides. He opened up with, “I had the news on; they interrupted the story to declare that Über and Leet had tried to put a bunch of people into a game maze or something but a pair of capes had foiled them. I wasn’t too worried until they started showing clips of you two half-costumed making your way over that damned fake lava stuff. What _happened?_ ” 

From there, Taylor explained the evening’s events (“We weren’t looking for trouble, I swear, but we couldn’t just walk away with them _right there_ ”), reassured her dad that things weren’t as dangerous as they looked (“That ‘lava’ stuff wasn’t hot enough to _really_ burn you, and it’s not like we were ever at real risk of falling in. Heck, Charles could have caught me if I fell, you saw how he threw Über across the room!”), and generally let loose all the excitement of the night (“I met Armsmaster! I shook his hand! He said I was going to be a _terror_ when I was done training!”). 

At the end, she sat with her dad, all the words she needed to say out, and quietly enjoyed the feeling of success. It’d been too long since something had just uncomplicated gone _right_ , and Taylor wanted to stretch out the good feeling as long as possible. 

That night, her sleep was deep and sound. Taylor dreamed of victory. 

1 Parahumans whose powers give them information-based advantages, most commonly superhuman senses but also including enhanced skills (like Über’s) or, rarely, outright divinatory abilities (such as a “danger sense”). Taylor’s use here is colloquially appropriate, given most Thinkers are less direct threats than Über, but not strictly accurate. [back]

2 A rare example of Tinkertech that’s been reverse-engineered such that it can be mass-produced by mundane methods, containment foam is a fast-expanding, quick-setting substance able to stand up to inhuman levels of force while remaining safely soft and breathable. [back]


	9. Bloodhound 1.u

#### Tattletale 

A perfunctory knock on her door heralded Alec’s “Hey, Tats. You were right about that guy – I couldn’t get anything off of him. Whatever his deal is, it sure isn’t normal.” 

She gave her teammate a wry half-smile, answering, “Yeah, I figured. Like trying to grab a corpse, right?” 

“Sure, why not. I’m crashing for the night, that was _exhausting_ , Leet kept _talking_ at me. Fuck but I’m glad we don’t have any Tinkers on the team.” With that, he slouched off to his own room. 

Lisa went back to reviewing footage of the fight, trying to figure out what to do about these new capes in town. Remembering the moment where she went from “Hey, newbies, cool,” to “What the fuck _is_ he?” Remembering what her power had told her. 

_Not human. Was once human, not human or parahuman now. Something different. Something alien._


	10. Bloodhound 1.h

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest chapter by my delightful spouse and beta-reader!

It had been 37 days since anyone had last seen Charles Manning.

Hedea Michaelides stepped out of her car and nodded to the driver, who pulled away wordlessly. She kept her eyes on the door to the high-rise as she hurried inside. She’d done this many times before. She wasn’t worried about being ambushed, not here. The risks were on her end, and it was best not to think about them.

6 security guards watched her carefully as she headed for the elevator. The lobby was decorated in a minimalist fashion, as though designed to be no trouble; she knew it was just a fortunate coincidence. Prince Frederick would have preferred a smaller building with even less ostentation, but locating it centrally had been more important in the end.

She waited as the elevator took her up 7 floors to floor 8 (they called the ground floor the “first floor” here. Why?), then stepped out cautiously. She wasn’t _really_ worried about an ambush here either, but it was easier to trust that Kindred wouldn’t attack _on the street_. Not that she could have done much about it if Prince Frederick wanted her torpid, or if someone else did who he couldn’t handle.

There were 2 Kindred in the usual conference room. Yes, they were who they appeared to be: Prince Frederick and Sheriff Angus. She relaxed slightly and headed for the table, removing her long coat to hang on the back of the chair.

Prince Frederick was sitting back, relaxed but serious, wearing an austere tailored suit. He nodded wordlessly as she approached. A shame: if they’d found a good hint of Charles’ location, Frederick would be grinning and have the eager look of a hunter. He wasn’t _bad_ at hiding his emotions, but in Hedea’s experience, this wasn’t the sort of situation in which he would bother.

“Hedea,” he said as greeting. He pronounced it wrong, as always; if she’d known she’d be sticking with this group, she’d have bothered correcting them when it would have stuck.

Sheriff Angus frowned as he took out his phone, read a 5-word text message preview, then put it back in the pocket of his slacks. He was dressed all in black, with light fabrics, because the Canadians somehow retained the impression that summers were hot here even if they were only ever out at night. “Just got confirmation,” he said, sounding resigned. “The lead at the ferries was definitely someone else. Scourge will be a while getting back.”

“That’ll be fine,” said the Prince. “Now we’re just waiting on… ah, Primogen. Good timing.”

Primogen Jacqueline of the Tremere bustled into the room, putting down a bag and a huge ridiculous runed staff. She was wearing that terrible shirt with the 1181 stripes (804 on the torso, 325 on each arm, 52 on the collar), which Hedea had confirmed she always used to wear and wasn’t a rude joke at her expense from Charles. Not that that seemed like his style, but she knew he knew what her particular issues were, so when his new second-in-command showed up wearing _that_ it had definitely been worth checking. Probably best that he hadn’t told her _not_ to wear it, though; she didn’t seem perceptive enough to work out Hedea’s particular issues on her own, and that suited Hedea just fine.

“...but that’s to be expected. They would keep going even if he were… um, had passed on.” Hedea had spaced out again, but it didn’t _sound_ like she’d missed anything. Goodness, the Primogen was young, though. “Final death” didn’t sound natural to say yet. Not that there was an easy way to make it an adjective in English. Hedea had been told quite firmly that “finally dead” meant something altogether different.

The Prince nodded, then turned to Hedea expectantly.

She sighed. “Tracking the finances is slow going,” she reported. “I’ve got mortgage records for the year he arrived from _two_ of the major banks, but Bank of -”

“You’re still trying to find his havens?” Sheriff Angus asked, frowning.

“Well, it’s the best idea I have at the moment, assuming the Tremere won’t budge on letting me into their Chantry.” Hedea carefully kept her annoyance from her face. Her specialty (which they were well aware of) was things that well-connected mortals knew, and Charles’ location was clearly not in that category.

“Absolutely not,” the Tremere Primogen replied sternly. “We would willingly lose _all_ of our number to keep _that_ secret.”

“Of course,” Hedea said absently. She’d only been trying to remind the Sheriff of the previous argument, not retread it.

Prince Frederick leaned toward her, a twinkle in his eye. “Hedea, have you asked the Madness Network?”

She winced. That was a crude way to put it. “I need _some_ clues to look at. I’ve exhausted what I can get from maps and blind-driving, and I’m trying to find his homes - “

“He only really slept at the Chantry,” Jacqueline said, shaking her head. “I don’t expect safehouses to give you much.”

“Blind driving?” the Sheriff asked, looking horrified.

Frederick was smiling. “I’m not talking about Eyes of Chaos. Have you _asked the Madness Network?_ ”

Hedea outright facepalmed. This wasn’t the safest of moves in response to a Prince, but she happened to know he was fairly young, as Princes went - a secret he kept close to his chest. He was just… incredibly dangerous, more even than she would expect from a Toreador whose personal Art was _war_.

“I’m not a _prophet_ , and I don’t think that’s how it works even for them,” she explained, carefully keeping her voice neutral. She’d actually had a prophetic dream once, but if every Malkavian in a large city has the same dream, that doesn’t mean any of them are prophets, and anyway, she’d never told Frederick that.

“Try it,” the Prince said, and though his tone was no harsher than before, Hedea got the message from the set of his face: this one was not a polite request.

Hedea sighed and glared at the Prince, a privilege of their personal friendship, forged in battle. “No promises, not even on a time frame.” Then she closed her eyes.

All her waking hours, Hedea kept herself carefully unaware of the voices which constantly chattered in the back of her consciousness. Countless Malkavians, all across the world, were constantly screaming telepathically, across a Network none of them could turn off. Getting used to it and allowing it to fade to a background noise was the only way to _pretend_ to stay sane, and focusing on it was a task Hedea always hated to her very core.

She broke down the barriers she’d fought so hard to build, and focused on a single voice: _...in mist form, could get through anywhere I missed. I could make the entire house smell terrible, then walk around outside and tell where it was coming from. What smells terrible, but isn’t flammable? Wait, I’d just smell myself. I’d need somewhere safe to stay before I can make it safe!_

What a reasonable fellow. She’d never get anywhere listening to a thought like that. She focused on a second: _That’s right, asshole. You BEG! BEG me to let you go back to whippings, it’s so much -_

Right, she didn’t really need to listen, just let it wash over her. _A third: LIES! LIES, you LIAR! It’s all -_

_\- because i was put here to suffer, and if i could muster up the courage to go have a look at the sun -_

_\- I just have to keep in mind what the dragon said: “When the Hour of Metal is at hand, you must go at once to the clock tower -_

_\- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA -_

That was probably attuned enough, she supposed. She forced herself to stop counting the voices (they really _were_ countless, she had _checked_ plenty) and called into the maelstrom: _Hey, I’m looking for Charles Manning. Does anyone know where Charles Manning went?_

To her shock, an answer came back, with only a quick pause as though a conversation partner were thinking a moment before speaking. It was a woman’s voice, alto and clear as a bell, and the rest of the Network didn’t quiet down but she could focus on it as though it were the only sound in the room.

_“He’s far away and long ago, but should be safe enough for the moment. I’ve sent him to make some friends and run some errands.”_


	11. Nematocera 2.1

I counted down our list one last time, watching the Empire Eighty-Eight safehouse carefully. Significant stockpile of drugs and weapons inside, check. No capes within either Apocrita’s range or my own, check. Photographs of every gang member who’s entered or exited within the last half-hour, check. Trail established as to how we found this place via publicly-known powers, check (it’s amazing how many gang members just go _walking around_ stinking of gunpowder, heh). Bug swarm infiltration complete, check. Apocrita safely hidden and waiting on my signal, check.

In we go. 

A burst of speed put me behind the smoker at the back door, handcuffs rising into place before he’d even noticed my approach. He tried to pull in air to shout alarm and got a mouthful of flies for his trouble, cuffed and down before he finished coughing. Back door’s unlocked, of course – why lock the door when you’re just stepping out for a smoke? Nobody in the kitchen, nobody in the dining room... ah, the swarm’s pointing an arrow towards the master bedroom. 

Ah. _Bedroom_. Well, at least I can be very sure they’re not armed. And now they’re cuffed, too bad for them the swarming bugs probably killed the mood, moving on. 

Three more in the basement – hypothetically we could have waited for there to be fewer guards, but by then half this stuff could have been distributed. Worth the risk. 

First one’s down before they know I’m there, but Apocrita couldn’t get enough bugs in here fast enough to prevent the others hearing her fall. They try to menace me with their guns, but under the circumstances... ah, swarm’s moving, one’s tripped and tangled, move in while the last one thinks I’m over there... and, done. Handcuffs for everybody, we don’t need to _advertise_ how we did this, the bugs’ll clear away any sign they were here. 

More disciplined grunts would have gone for their cell phones first, not their guns, but that’s why these goons were on the worst night shift... speaking of phones, time to step out of earshot and make a call. The police weren’t going to show up and arrest the people we’d caught red-handed all on their own, after all.

After our unintentional debut, it’d been easy to get in touch with New Wave and set up an actual meet-and-greet. Lady Photon (or Sarah Pelham), her husband Manpower (Neil Pelham), and their niece Glory Girl (Victoria Dallon) met Apocrita and me on top of a random office building – giving the group with two natural fliers the home-ground advantage in case we were up to something. Their costumes followed a clear pattern of white background with various coloured images on top (Lady Photon’s an indigo-purple starburst, Manpower’s a yellow lightning bolt, and Glory Girl’s was simple gold trim). 

Between the colour-coordinated outfits and the lack of masks over their conventionally attractive faces, they looked more like some sort of sports team than a band of superheroes. Conveniently for them, when one of you is an airborne laser-artillery platform, another is a living electromagnetic tank, and the last is a flying brick powerful enough to get called “Alexandria-lite1”, _nobody_ forgets that you’re a band of superheroes. 

The conversation went well – Glory Girl focused on Apocrita, sensing a fellow teenage hero to bond with (to Taylor’s clear, awkward chagrin – having an overenthusiastic extrovert friending at her was obviously a bit much), while Lady Photon and Manpower cheerfully provided useful advice to someone new to the area who just wanted to know how things get done around here. Taylor had even been badgered into trading cell numbers with Glory Girl, “For new-friend texting and real hero stuff only, I swear!” 

We kept in touch after that, leading to the most currently relevant bit of info they'd given me – while North American governments removed or dramatically downplayed anti-vigilante laws in the wake of literal superheroes popping up all over, they still wanted to keep some key law-enforcement-related powers to themselves. Such as asset forfeiture. So, while a certain amount of under-the-table looting was apparently acceptable, as independent vigilantes trying to stay on the right side of the law we would be mostly unable to fund ourselves with the proceeds of our crime-busting activities. 

Vaguely frustrating, but oh well. Even a couple hundred here and there made for a pretty big boost to the Hebert household finances. 

With the BBPD summoned to do their ostensible jobs, Apocrita stayed on watch while I searched the house – best not get caught off-guard if somebody showed up unexpectedly, after all. We hadn’t found any evidence that the guards here did any sort of regular check-ins, but surprise inspections are an excellent way to make sure your minions never know if you’re about to come down on them for sloppiness. This was the fourth time we’d hit E88 so far, and the first major storehouse – we were expecting them to step up security sooner or later. 

Our caution paid off – before the cops even arrived, the bugs she’d put on my cell phone buzzed to alert me to a message: “Incoming E88, at least 3, one’s Krieg, slow field’s up”. Damn. Krieg’s area-effect kinetic manipulation was a decent counter for Apocrita’s swarms, and we had no idea what effect it’d have on my telekinesis. This could get awkward. 

“Keep cover, alert Protectorate/PRT,” I replied, heading for the front living room and its street-facing window. 

I later found that Taylor’d replied “Duh”, but not bothered to buzz me that she’d done so. The best sort of snark: delivered sensibly despite the dangerous situation we were in. She _was_ learning fast. 

It wasn’t long until the E88 capes came into sight – Krieg’s surprisingly subdued presence almost like an afterthought beside Crusader, an armoured cape able to summon his own personal army of ghostly duplicates. Half a dozen translucent spear-wielding figures stalked towards the house, each with the loose stance of an experienced fighter. Last, but only maybe least, Victor skulked in the shadows across the street, moving as stealthily as any mortal I’d ever seen; his skill-thieving power left him even more versatile than Über, but with none of the slapdash charm. 

Two capes with powerful multi-target effects which doubled as melee counters, and backup with a broad array of tricks – Kaiser was good at this. Inconvenient. 

Well, with Apocrita ready to take advantage of any openings, best to start by thinning their numbers. A moment’s concentration, a quiet chant, and Crusader found himself hurtling away into a nearby tree. Krieg broke into a run, charging the house at a gently superhuman pace, while Victor tried to take cover and got himself swarmed for his troubles. 

One down, one out for the moment. Time for... _sigh_... single combat. 

I backed away from the window, getting a good telekinetic grip on the nearby couch and aiming to clobber Krieg as he came in. His kinetic manipulation was up to the challenge, annoyingly, and let him push through the heavy furniture as if it was light as a feather. Didn’t even bruise him. 

His aim was no match for his power, thankfully, and I ducked under his thrown-chair counterattack easily enough. An endurance match against a parahuman this tough seemed like an incredible waste of blood, so I backed further down the hall, swinging again with the couch to slow him down. This time, he smashed it in half with a kick before leaping to pursue. 

Fine, then. If force won’t slow you down, let’s try _leverage_... keep backing up, get a good strong grip on the floorboards... see the triumph in his eyes as he lunges forward... and twist as his foot comes down. 

A shame about his mask, the look on his face as the floor went out from under him must have been _priceless_. Bring the floorboards back down, trap his leg before he can get up, and slam what’s left of the couch into place to pin his arms. 

Krieg struggled, but with so little room to move he couldn’t build enough power to overcome me even with his force-multiplication. Now, I just had to hold him here until Apocrita had him properly cocooned. 

Of course, Crusader’s summons came right through the wall at me before then. Unfortunately for him, it turned out that their intangible nature – phasing through dead or inorganic matter harmlessly, but affecting living flesh normally – left them unable to _touch_ me, let alone do me any harm. Not that I didn’t get a scare from the spear blow they landed finding that out. 

Still, lucky. It’s not like magic predicated on the living/dead divide is particularly consistent in how it affects Kindred. 

Mop-up was simple enough from there, and fifteen minutes later Armsmaster and the PRT were taking the three E88 capes into custody. He was definitely more impressed this time – which only increased his concern about who I might be or what I might be up to. Hopefully, our spotlessly heroic public image would be enough to keep him – and Director Piggot, head of the local PRT, who was apparently even _more_ suspicious of me – off of our backs. At least Apocrita was ecstatic about the win, morale’s important and it’s not like she was getting much of it outside of cape work. 

If official channels didn’t do something about her school situation soon, it might need my direct intervention after all. It was time to look at recruiting, too – going after the cape gangs as a two-person team wasn’t going to work forever, and I believed that Taylor was confident enough to handle teammates now. Inconveniently, the Protectorate had done an excellent job recruiting local heroes – the only independents left in the area were New Wave, who weren’t exactly looking to change things up. All the individual capes and small groups in need of new members in town were outright villains. 

Well. It’s not like I’d never recruited anyone who my allies thought of as an automatic threat before. It would simply require some... delicacy. There was bound to be _someone_ who could be convinced to switch sides while remaining useful without bringing the PRT down on our heads. 

1 Alexandria, one of the Triumvirate (the three capes who lead the Protectorate, and likely the mightiest within it); known as _the_ flying Brute, she’s virtually invulnerable and able to knock even an Endbringer down with her sheer physical power (though _keeping_ such a monster down, unfortunately, was beyond even her amazing strength). [back]


	12. Nematocera 2.t

#### Taylor 

She’d had a bad feeling about the clump of students on the landing above the stairs, but it wasn’t enough to send her fighting against the press of bodies to take another way up. A pack of jocks were stampeding down the safer far wall, leaving Taylor no choice but walk right under the landing – which in turn left her dead centre of the explosion as somebody’s “excited” arm swing sent a full bottle of soda down into the stairwell. Even then, her bugs _had_ given her enough warning to dodge... but only if she started moving _before_ the bottle went flying. 

Given the choices “risk outing herself as a cape by dodging before something actually happened” and “get drenched in soda”, Taylor knew what she’d take every time. At least she managed to turn away fast enough that it didn’t get in her backpack – just all over her shirt. 

She hadn’t worn a shirt she _liked_ to school since October, anyway. 

One of the jocks – track team, maybe? He looked vaguely familiar, she might have seen him hanging out with Sophia – brayed out a laugh at her bedraggled state, drawing snickers from the rest as they piled out. Taylor took a deep breath, centring herself as best she could, and stomped her way up the stairs. Math class was waiting. 

Taylor remembered _liking_ math class. These days, she was down to “appreciating the lack of classroom discussion,” especially on days like this one where the topic of discussion would probably have been _her_. 

Thankfully, the rest of the day went without incident (sadly, “mocked in the hallways for getting covered in soda” hardly qualified as an incident these days). Finally, Taylor was _free_... well, free until 8:30 tomorrow morning, at least. 

As she jogged home – hey, free exercise, might as well – Taylor let her mind wander, trying to reach the state of relaxed mindfulness that let her reflexes watch out for trouble while her mind kept working. She didn’t have it _quite_ down, but with her swarm senses stretching out multiple city blocks in each direction she wasn’t too worried about actually missing anything. 

Of course, that meant her mind was free to think, ponder, daydream even... all the things she avoided doing at school, because various fantasies ranging from the nearly-reasonable “test out of school early and become a full-time vigilante,” all the way to “show those damn bullies the _real_ meaning of fear, applied via just the right number of spiders – i.e. _lots_ ,” tended to intrude into her consciousness and _stay_ there. 

The worst part, in a way, was the fact that they _had_ been so successful. Taylor knew for a fact that they’d gotten tens of thousands of dollars in contraband off of the streets, plus captured over a dozen gangsters, and taken down _five capes_ – which was a frankly amazing pile of accomplishments for a rookie cape who’d been on the job less than a month. Yeah, she wasn’t working alone, but comparing what her weekends and nights were like – exciting, challenging, _productive_ – well, put all of that against “ _technically_ passing, constantly bullied, accomplishing _nothing_ ” and school was looking worse every day. 

That, and she was still worried she was going to lose her shit somewhere public, out herself, and get labelled a villain to boot. The Trio may have eased off a bit once she’d been _literally hospitalized_ by their BS and sent everything she had to the cops, but they were still sniping at her from cover every chance they got. Taylor knew her temper, and if things didn’t get better, the _best_ she could hope for was keeping things to a mundane fistfight. Which, sure, she’d been training – but it’d be three on one, and Sophia’d been working out a lot longer than she had. Bad idea... plus, Taylor just _knew_ Emma’d manage to spin things so she was the innocent victim and Taylor the vicious aggressor. _Nope_. 

By the time Taylor got home, she’d worked herself up to a seething fury, then ran herself out until all that was left was sullen resentment. Arriving to the expected empty house – well, functionally empty, Charles slept like the dead until sunset – didn’t do her mood any favours, and she stomped upstairs to take a shower before settling in to try to make some progress on her homework. 

Maybe an hour of grinding through math problems later, her phone buzzed. She glanced over, curious and a little surprised, and saw Glory Girl’s number. “Heard you guys had a great weekend, wanna hang out and brag about it?” 

Um. Did she? Maybe? It was probably better than sitting here alone, at least. “Sure,” she texted back, “where were you thinking?” 

“I dunno, just finished my after-school ‘job’, I’m downtown but it’s not like I’ll take long to get to you lol. Where’s good for you? I’ll grab my sister and swing by.” 

Taylor thought a moment, then sent Glory Girl the address of a nearby park that was usually safely empty late in the afternoon. A few minutes to get her gear together, a note left for her dad, and she was on her way. 

As she costumed up in a hidden nook, Taylor wondered how independent capes without sensory powers managed it – sure, she and Charles both could be sure if anybody was nearby, and obviously the PRT had the resources to give people cover, but it seemed like anybody with a pure combat package would have a lot of trouble not leading people back to their homes or getting caught half-costumed. Then again, she mused to herself, it’s not like exposing a cape’s identity was _safe_ , with the unwritten rules on the one hand and their power advantage on the other. 

By the time she was ready, Glory Girl, carrying (presumably) her sister Panacea, was descending from the sky into the woods. They presented quite the contrast in appearances – Panacea was notably shorter, and wore an all-encompassing hooded white robe with a medic’s red cross front and back, leaving only her face exposed (as opposed to Glory Girl, who was in a form-fitting dress, shorts, and cape combo suggestive of an overdecorated gymnast’s uniform, topped by a _literal tiara_ ). 

“Hey, Apocrita!” Glory Girl called into the trees as they landed. “We’re here!” 

Taylor – no, Apocrita – cleared her throat, then stepped out into the clearing, answering, “Hello, Glory Girl. You’re Panacea, I’m guessing? It’s nice to meet you.” 

Panacea rolled her eyes at her sister, then stepped forward to shake Apocrita’s hand with a small smile. “You too. Victoria here was saying something about you and Eclipse bringing in a few E88 capes on the weekend?” 

“Yeah, c’mon, spill! Crusader’s _tough!_ ” 

Glad that her mask hid her face – seeing established heroes, people she’d been watching in the news for years, impressed with her work felt so _awkward_ , even if they were about her age – Apocrita started to tell the story: how they’d been tracking gang members with her bugs and Eclipse’s nose, eventually finding the house where the contraband was stashed; how they’d laid in wait, patiently making sure they weren’t missing any nasty surprises; and how they’d gone in hard, her bugs and Eclipse’s speed making short work of the unpowered gangsters. 

Glory Girl – Victoria, now, apparently (“Don’t worry about unmasking to me, I know that’s a big deal for most capes, but it’s not like you don’t _know_ my name...”) was an enthusiastic audience, interjecting with comments, compliments, or snark aimed at E88. Panacea (“Amy.”) was quieter, but _vicious_ when she saw an opening, and Apocrita was glad that sharp tongue was pointed at their mutual enemies. 

They quieted down as she got to the meat of the fight, how she’d spotted the capes on the approach and warned Eclipse, then taken down Victor while her teammate knocked one back and duelled the other. Crusader’d tried to flee when his team was down, leaving his projections to try to recover them, but Apocrita’d managed to stall him with her swarm long enough for Eclipse to get through and take him down. “It was lucky they didn’t work on Eclipse,” she finished, “he’s pretty tough, but I don’t think he’s ‘ignore a spear to the face’ tough. Once we had them all cocooned up, we just had to wait for Armsmaster and the PRT to come take them in.” 

“Huh,” Amy responded. “With how Crusader’s ghosts work, that means Eclipse isn’t just a regular Brute, he’s gotta be something pretty unusual. I... might not even be able to heal him, if it comes down to it.”

Taylor blinked. She hadn’t even thought of that. “Well, I haven’t seen him too hurt yet, but apparently he’s got some regeneration, so hopefully he can just heal on his own?” 

“Ooh, lucky!” Victoria complained jokingly, “All that and he regenerates, too?” 

Amy snorted. “As if you get to complain in the powers department. How big was that truck you bench-pressed the other day?” 

“Eh, not as big as I _could_ do if I didn’t have to worry about them falling apart on me. Either way, Apocrita, it’s obvious you’re _almost_ as badass as _we_ are! Clearly we gotta hang out more, you need some cool friends you can talk cape stuff with. Nothing against, like, your non-cape friends, but even if you trust them with this stuff they won’t _get it_ , y’know?” 

“I, uh,” dammit Taylor, stay cool, “I don’t really have a lot of non-cape friends, really. Nobody I can talk to about this stuff, for sure.” 

Victoria beamed at her, her emotions projected almost like a physical force. “Then it’s decided! Right, Amy?” 

“Sure, why not,” Amy answered with another eye-roll at her sister. “You’ve volunteered me for worse, at least Apocrita’s got the sense to stay back so she doesn’t need patching up all the time.” 

“Hey!” 

Apocrita listened to sisterly bickering, and let herself relax a little. Maybe things were going to be kind of okay, after all.


	13. Nematocera 2.2

“I must admit,” Gregor said, “I was not quite sure you would be here.” 

“And give up a chance to talk to a fellow adult cape?” I answered, touching down on the club’s roof. “Apocrita is a prodigy, but we’ve made no secret of her youth. Being able to speak face-to-face with an actual peer is more than worth the risk that somebody recognizes me coming or going here.” 

As my host mulled it over, I stretched out my senses as far as they could reach – no point _asking_ for trouble, after all. There was no sign anybody’d noticed my short “hop” over from one of the office buildings near Palanquin, and after a moment I allowed myself to relax a bit. 

“That does make sense,” Gregor finally replied. “Still, I feel strange sitting down with a hero in full costume for a friendly chat.” 

I shrugged at that, taking the phrase as a sign it was time to claim one of the plastic lawn chairs set up under a small awning. “It’s not like I’ve kept my history as a rogue secret. Heck, if I wasn’t mentoring Apocrita, I might just have asked if you folks were hiring,” I tossed out with an unseen smile. Being reassuring was much trickier if they couldn’t look you in the eye or see a friendly smile, I’d found – this whole “mask” thing was terribly inconvenient. Tone of voice and body language only got you so far; really, it explained why so many capes – especially heroes – left part of their faces open despite the increased risk to their identities. 

“Not right now, I think. Best that you are where you are,” Gregor said, claiming a seat of his own. “Though we have been impressed with your efficiency. The PRT is rarely so aggressive, here.” 

I shrugged a little, leaning back in the chair and looking out over the city. “That’s what they get for being stuck protecting the status quo, I suppose. Meanwhile, we’re trying to establish ourselves – a little more risk comes with the position.” 

“Ah, but the bigger jobs come to those well established, do they not?” 

“If the job’s coming to you, sure,” I answered with a smug tilt of my head, “but we’re hardly taking missions or bounties here. It’s just a matter of learning how big a bite we can take out of Kaiser’s operation without getting buried in capes.” 

Gregor snorted at that, shaking his head. “You have already taken more than enough of a bite for that, I think. Be careful.” 

“I always am,” I reassured him, before turning the conversation towards lighter topics. I was here to network, after all, and Gregor could use a friend who he could just chat with. His blatantly inhuman form didn’t give him a lot of opportunities for conventional socialization, after all. 

We were in the midst of a mock-heated discussion on the relative merits of vodka vs. whisky (vodka was winning, to my mild satisfaction) when a staccato burst of gunfire echoed from the north. I sharpened my hearing in time to catch a second burst, than a third; all sounding like they were far closer to the Heberts’ neighbourhood than I was comfortable with. With an overblown sigh, I got out of my chair, telling Gregor, “Duty calls, it seems. Do pass on my good wishes to Faultline and the others.” 

“Better you than me,” he replied with dour cheer. “Good luck.” 

Thanking him with a nod, I rose into the air, then turned and flew full-speed towards the sounds of violence. Telekinetic flight isn’t fast enough to break any speed limits, but it’s still firmly ahead of just running; really, being able to fly without concern for witnesses or hunters was one of the few things here that I was going to miss if I ever got home. Of course, once I got home I’d actually have access to vehicles again, making the point a bit moot. 

As I got closer, it was a relief to note that the fighting wasn’t actually _that_ close to the Heberts’. Nearby, certainly – Taylor and Danny had probably been woken up by the gunfire, so if she wasn’t there yet it was only a matter of time – but far enough away the house itself was cleanly out of the line of fire. 

Unfortunately, the gunfire was being supplanted by streams of literal fire. Given Gregor’d known Spitfire was still safely at Palanquin, that left one likely suspect: Lung. _Shit_. 

By the time I was close enough to see details, the less literal stage of the firefight was finished. Dozens of probable gangsters were strewn along a city street, in various stages of bug-bitten and silk-wrapped. Lung himself was standing in the middle of the street; wreathed in flame, seven feet tall and growing, steel scales and vicious claws sprouting from his skin even as I watched. Apocrita was in cover the next block over, taking no risks despite having several buildings between her and the incipient rage-flame-dragon. 

_Fuck_. Half the damn _point_ of going after E88 was avoiding this fight. If we couldn’t drop Lung fast enough, his power escalation alone might be enough to plow through just about anything we could throw at him; on top of that, if his teleporting minion Oni Lee showed up, even running might not get us out safely. 

And, for emphasis, _Lung could throw fire_. 

I flew in behind as much cover as I could manage until I was close enough to get a lock on him, then reached out and grabbed. He fought back – the combination of sheer mass and surprising strength of will caught me off-guard for a moment – but I got a firm grip, flinging us both up into the air. 

Up we went, screaming into the sky (Lung quite literally, curses and death threats bellowed incoherently between his growing fangs). Even facing away from me – and blinded? Nicely done, Apocrita – the constant barrage of flames kept coming too close for comfort, his superhuman hearing enough to pinpoint my location from the wind of our passage alone. Thankfully for the city below, his fire blasts didn’t hold together long enough to reach the ground, guttering out in the high-altitude air. 

For a moment, I hoped that that would be enough – that the thin air would weaken him, and eventually his power would burn out. Then his back _rippled_ , steel-edged bone tearing its way free, and I realized he was growing _wings_. Between that and the sheer size of him – approaching ten foot tall, and heavily built at that – I was going to lose control of the situation shortly. 

On to plan C, then, and hope we were high enough nobody noticed anything suspicious. I reached into a pouch, pulled out an innocuous-looking carved stone sphere about an inch in diameter, and whipped it at Lung as fast as I could. 

His transformation stopped, then he collapsed back into a normal man – six feet tall and built like a professional wrestler, but not a sign of scale or claw. The shock of it stunned him, as did the sudden shrinking of lungs dealing with too-thin air, but his aura of flame persisted. Damn. I kept flying us higher, dodging fire blasts as I went (those didn’t seem to have weakened any, I noted; whatever power increase he got from fighting, it clearly wasn’t purely tied to his physical changes). Finally, the flames wavered and went out as he lost consciousness. 

I brought us into a dive. Best not to _actually_ suffocate him, after all. 


End file.
